


The Caged Bird Sings of Freedom

by AabH



Series: A caged bird stands on the grave of dreams [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Bullying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depression, Dubious Ethics, Food Issues, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Master/Slave, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Past Abuse, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, disturbing imagery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 10:20:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 69,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25349101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AabH/pseuds/AabH
Summary: Slavery AU, part two of I know why the caged bird sings. Same story, told from Mike's perspective. It's highly recommended that you read what is posted of part one before beginning this one. Part one and two of this series will be updated and posted near each other but this one is about three to four chapters behind part one. Ratings and tags will change as needed. Please read tags and be aware of content before reading as there will be very graphic and disturbing content.**8908 had an itch on the sole of his foot but tried to ignore it. Even if his ankle hadn’t been cuffed, he couldn’t have turned far enough in his kneeling position to scratch it with his hands bound so closely together. He shifted, letting his weight move from one leg to the other, feeling the pins and needles of blood flow as he did. Great. Now his nose itched too.“Eyes forward,” an employee reminded him as they passed, followed by a Domestic in a violet dress.8908 glanced up briefly before setting his gaze on a water spot on the far wall. Were they going to make him sit through a Choosing or would he be removed before the client arrived? Surely they wouldn’t let such an eyesore remain on the showroom floor.
Relationships: Will Byers/Mike Wheeler
Series: A caged bird stands on the grave of dreams [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1832107
Comments: 176
Kudos: 138





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the same story as 'I know why the caged bird sings', but told from Mike's perspective. All warning for that story also apply to this one.

He woke to the familiar sound, the soft hum and buzz of the lights turning on, and opened his eyes. Even if he’d wanted to sleep through the sound, the lights were bright and inconveniently placed directly over his cot, too bright to ignore even if he wanted to. He rolled, letting his feet slide off and hit the cool tile and stretched his toes against it, the feeling of the tile helping wake him. Everything in the facility was cool. Not cold exactly, but certainly not warm. It wouldn’t do to have the products sweat excessively, clogging their pores and producing excess oil in their hair. 

CPM8908 walked towards the door and waited patiently. When he heard the soft ‘click’ of the lock being released, he pressed against it, feeling the soft woosh of air as the door retracted into the wall and out of sight. He glanced briefly at the security camera above his door before stepping through and into the hall, keeping his face as neutral as possible as he began walking. He proceeded down the well lit corridor to the refresher, a few paces behind another Domestic, a few paces in front of another. He nodded at the DCP who handed him a towel and washcloth as he approached. 

“Greetings. It’s a lovely day.”

“Greetings,” he replied, not finishing the phrase (how was he supposed to know if it was a lovely day or not? There were no windows in either his room or the hall).

The woman smiled at him, apparently not perturbed by his inappropriate response. He looked at her briefly, examining her face. He’d seen her a few times before, maybe a dozen or so. There’d be a transfer soon. She’d be moved to another building or another facility within the month. 8908 stepped up to the shower and stripped, hanging his sleep clothes on the hook outside of the shower door to be collected and replaced. He turned in a 360 degree circle to let the cameras look him over before stepping in to the shower and pressing the switch. He flinched a little when the cold water hit him but quickly reached for the soap to lather and wash as fast as he could. As he scrubbed, 8908 noticed the shampoo and conditioner provided. It must be a Sunday or Wednesday. 

He grabbed it, applying an ample amount to his dark curls and massaged it in, shivering as he did. 8908 would have liked to change the temperature, had hot water pour over him, a moment to relax into the steam and just take his time for once, but it wasn’t an option. The temperature was remotely controlled and set for maximum efficiency and minimum hair damage. While 8908 could appreciate the practicality of it all, he still wished for even a small modicum of control. 

He tilted his head back and opened his mouth, letting the water hit his tongue and swallowed gulp after gulp. He ran a hand across his throat, the faux leather collar that rested there and worked the soap beneath it to his dry and irritated skin. 8908 hit the button again, shutting off the water once all the allotted soap was gone and pulled a towel around himself to dry. He hung the towel where his sleep clothes had been and pulled on the tunic and slacks provided before slipping into the shoes that lay on the floor. He walked from the refresher, past the DCP and a few others, not bothering to greet them past a nod. He stopped in front of the second station and waited patiently for the DCP there to look up at him. 

“Greetings. It’s a lovely day. Designation?”

“CPM8908.”

“Thank you. I see here that you have unrestricted access to drawers one through four. If you’d like access to five to seven you need supervision. Would you like assistance with that today?” the DCP asked, smiling brightly. 

“No, one through four is fine,” he replied, not particularly caring if he got a shave in today. 

“Very well,” the DCP said, typing something into his tablet, still smiling. “Please proceed to station six. You’re allotted time is twelve minutes.”

“Thanks.”

The door wooshed open and 8908 walked inside, passing a few others who were washing their faces and styling their hair. He paused in front of station six and stared at himself in the mirror for a long moment before popping the first drawer open and extracting a toothbrush and toothpaste. He set aside the bottle of mouthwash and dental floss to use later. He looked at himself again, at his pale skin and dark, sunken eyes and grimaced. No doubt he’d be prescribed a session of two in the tanning station and sleep aids before the day was out. He sighed, brushing his teeth quickly before gargling the mouthwash and flossing. 

He reached for the nondescript antiperspirant and applied it under each arm, wincing a little as he raised the left. He rotated his shoulder, trying to loosen it and evaluate the old injury that was causing the stiffness. After a few rotations, 8908 let his arm rest and picked up the mousse and applied a light amount to his curls, not bothering to brush them out. As he ran his fingers over his scalp, he paused at the raised ridge of scar tissue hidden near the base of his skull. It wasn’t noticeable unless you were actually touching it, but his vanity had taken a hit nonetheless in the first few weeks after the injury. 

8908 dropped his hands and examined himself again, not really particularly in the mood to do more but knowing a correction waited for him if he didn’t at least wash his face. He did, begrudgingly, briefly considering flipping off the camera he knew was behind the mirror but deciding against it at the last moment. No point in pissing off the security team. They were there ‘for his protection’ after all. 

He set the used products aside to be evaluated for tampering and left, offering a nod to the DCP on his way out. 8908 headed to the dinning hall and stood in line quietly, zoning out while he waited for his ration bar and water. He took them when they were handed to him with a ‘it’s a lovely day’, and moved away to sit. He chewed slowly, trying to decide if the flavor was _supposed_ to taste like old leather and newspaper or if that was just an unfortunate coincidence. From the corner of his eyes, 8908 saw two employees in suits approaching him. He ignored them, pretending he hadn’t seen and took a sip of water instead. 

“CPM8908, you’re scheduled for physical evaluation. Please finish your meal and come with us.”

He stared up, water bottle still at his lips as he felt his heart jump and pulse tap against his collar. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry despite the water he’d just drunk and set it down. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice soft but blessedly without a shake to it.

One of the employees looked at his tablet, examining it for a moment before nodding a confirmation. 

“Yes. You had a follow up last month but your regularly scheduled wellness check still has to be completed every ninety days. Please complete your meal and come with us.”

8908 swallowed again, the food suddenly tasteless and dry in his mouth. He set the bar down and glanced up nervously. 

“I’m not hungry. Can we just get this over with?”

The man looked down at the tablet again before shaking his head. 

“No. Your records show you are on a calorie controlled diet. You must complete your meal before we go.”

8908 looked at his food, stomach churning with acid. He forced it down as quickly as he could before starting to stand. 

“The water as well, please.”

8908 paused, looking at the bottle. 

“Can I take it with me?”

“No. Finish now.”

He hesitated a moment longer, wondering why it was so important to drink it _right now_ instead of at his leisure. He winced a little when he heard the faint warning buzz from his collar and hurried to drink the water as quickly as he could, not caring that it sat heavily in his stomach. 8908 held up the bottle for the other men to see and raised an eyebrow to ask if they could see he’d complied. This time when he tried to stand, he was allowed to do so. 

The walk to the medical building was quiet but at least he got to see the sun, feel the wind on his face, even if only for a moment. 8908 breathed in deeply, trying to cement the smells to memory, the scents of the dew on grass, the pollen in the air. Once inside the building, he felt his heart skip again. This didn’t smell good, this smelled like disinfectant and artificial, recirculated air. 

The physician on duty was a slim, tall woman with grey eyes and mousy brown hair. She looked at him with interest and offered him what looked like a sincere smile before extending her hand to shake his. 

“CPM8908? I’m Dr. Buckley. Would you please stand here so we can get started?” she asked, indicating the scale with her free hand. 

He looked at her, surprised, and shook her hand softly. He thought for a moment, trying to determine if he’d ever seen her before. He didn’t think so (he’d remember the basic human kindness). Her smile was too sincere, her language too kind. She had to be new, fresh out of medical school and still proud of her position. He jerked a little when he heard the warning buzz from his collar again and quickly stepped onto the scale before it could escalate. The doctor stepped forward and adjusted the weight, writing a note to herself as he stood waiting. 

“One sixty four. Looks like you’re up another three pounds since your visit last month,” she commented, apparently pleased. “That’s almost fifteen pounds since your intake. That’s great, you’re finally getting into your ideal weight range,” she said, smiling at him and indicating that he should step down now. 

He did and settled onto the exam table, letting Dr. Buckley put the pulse ox on him and wrapped his arm with the blood pressure cuff. She took his vitals, scratching notes onto his chart before asking him to remove his shirt for a cardiogram. 8908 complied, laying still on the table as Dr. Buckley attached the electrodes to him, rolling up the cuffs of his pants to place the ones on his legs. 8908 lay still, counting the tiles of the ceiling while she applied the leads to the EKG machine and turned it on. 

“This should take about ten minutes. Try and be still and don’t talk, okay?”

8908 glanced at her, at her fresh face and hopeful expression and wondered what would make someone like her get involved with something like _this_. He averted his eyes and continued counting tiles, moving on to cobwebs when he was done. After a time, Dr. Buckley patted his arm and began removing the nodes so he could sit up again. 

“Everything looks great. Any issues with your jaw? Implants doing okay?” she asked, pushing a little cart with a metal tray over. 

8908 looked at the tray. It was filled with syringes and vials and a tourniquet and he felt his pulse spike at the sight. 8908 squirmed for a moment before stilling, trying to be calm. 

“They’re fine, thank you,” he whispered, throat tight, eyes still lingering on the tray of needles. 

“The skull fracture you came in with should be totally healed by now. I understand you were having headaches? Are you still getting them or have they subsided?”

8908 considered the question. He got headaches, everyone did. Nothing too severe or frequent, nothing he needed to bother the doctor with. He shook his head, looking down at his feet, the laceless slip on shoes he’d been provided and tried to ignore the growing feeling of dread that threatened to creep up and overtake him. The doctor wrote a note and smiled. 

“Okay. Everything is looking good. All I need are a few blood samples and we’ll get you a quick immunization booster and you’ll be all set. Sound good?”

8908 hesitated, feeling a tightness in his chest that hadn’t been there before. His breath felt like it was coming a little short now and he cleared his throat. 

“Is that necessary?” he asked, voice a little high. 

The woman glanced at him. 

“I’m afraid so. If you’ll just hold still and extend your arm, this will be over in no time. Promise.”

8908 tried to calm himself down, tried to repress the feeling of panic that rose in him at the thought of a needle piercing his skin. He remembered how it felt to be jabbed over and over in the meat of his thighs, through the muscle of his arms. He remembered how terrified he’d been when one hovered over his eye, threatening to impale him while he was restrained and helpless. He felt hot, his vision greying out for a moment when he tried to stand. 

“I- I don’t think-” he tried to say, pushing himself to his feet. 

“CPM, sit down,” someone said but he couldn’t focus enough to tell who was speaking.

He stumbled to his feet, breath thready and shallow. He reached out to steady himself and his hand landed on the Doctor’s shoulder and she used her own hands to steady him. When he touched her, a sudden shock ripped through his throat, radiating out and making him clench his hands. His grip on her coat rumpled the fabric between his fingers and he gasped, startled and pained as the feeling ripped through him. The force at which gripped the doctor drug her closer to him. _Not even a warning this time? How was that fair?_

“CPM, release Dr. Buckley and sit down, now.”

He heard the command, understood it, but 8908 couldn’t breath and he was staggering now, too distracted by his shortness of breath and pain to comply. He felt another, more powerful shock strike him and he let go of the doctor to clutch at his throat. He heard a gurgling, pained sound and was vaguely aware it was coming from him. A hand grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him back, making him lose his footing and fall into a half seated position on the exam table. 

“Hey, that’s enough!” Dr. Buckley said, trying to shoo the other employees away. “He’s sitting, it’s _fine_.”

“CPM, sit still. Do not move again,” one commanded, still pressing down on his shoulder roughly. 

_Please, just give me a moment, I can’t breathe._

8908 was still fighting down pain and panic, trying to steady himself as he slipped against the table, legs feeling weak. He leaned forward, hunched in on himself and pressed one hand to his bare chest, feeling his heart pound against his ribs as he struggled for air. He jerked in pain and almost fell completely off the table when the collar activated again, only staying off the ground because Dr. Buckley had him by the elbows to balance him. 8908 wanted to lean into her touch, to balance himself against her but was afraid to touch her at all. Why the fuck had he been shocked again? That was just spiteful. 

“I said _that’s enough._. You can either do as I say or get the hell out of my exam room,” she growled as she helped 8908 back onto the table. “Jesus, how’s he supposed to be still with you correcting him every five second?”

_Thank you._

“Hey, you okay? Just be still, I’ve got you,” Dr. Buckley whispered, trying to comfort him. 

8908 nodded, trying to be still and quiet for her, too distracted by the throbbing, choking pain in his neck and throat to care about the needles. Dr. Buckley administered the vaccine while he was still reeling from the sock of his correction, but the blood draw took longer. He was shaking so badly that she had to hold him steady and try twice before she got his vein. 8908 stayed as still as he could despite the shaking and growing panic at the needle beneath his skin. She filled five vials and bandaged him as quickly as she could. His tunic had been stepped on during the struggle and was dirtied now, but he put it on anyway. 8908 blinked at the doctor who gave him a sympathetic look but was unable to help him once the exam was over. As soon as he was dressed, 8908 was led from the medical building. 

8908 looked up at the sky, at the sun as it crept higher into the clouds and wished he could evaporate in it’s light just like the morning dew had. He wanted to run, to feel the grass between his toes and just _go_ , but he couldn’t. 8908 blinked, startled as he was led away from his housing unit. Was he being transferred already? No, he was being taken to be cuffed, his hands only given four inches of chain between them. His shoes were taken so his ankle could be fitted with a cuff as well, but the shoes weren’t returned to him. 

“What’s going on?” he asked, heart thumping uncomfortably. 

“You’re being corrected.”

_For what? Almost passing out?_

“I was already given a correction.”

“It was determined that you needed further correction. Please refrain from talking and follow me.”

8908 stumbled a little, almost fainting again when he was led into the showroom. So soon? Didn’t they at least need the blood samples analyzed first?

“Sit.”

He tried, but was pulled from the pedestal to a kneeling position on the ground behind it. He heard a click and glanced over his shoulder to see the ankle cuff being latched to the ground. 

“Eyes forward.”

He shifted, turning his gaze to look at his hands instead of his bare feet. After a moment, 8908 cleared his throat.

“How long am I supposed to sit here?”

“Until you are told otherwise.”

_Oh. Okay. Thanks. Really helpful._

He settled in, letting his ass rest against the heels of his feet and looked at his hands, waiting to hear the sounds of footsteps retreating. Once he was sure they were gone and he was alone in the showroom, 8908 closed his eyes and let out a puff of annoyance. He clicked his tongue and tried to think of ways to distract himself from the mind numbing boredom of sitting in silence for an undisclosed period of time. 

**

Three hours into his useless, utter pointless punishment, 8908 was roused from his near trance-like state by the sounds of objects moving and products being brought in. He opened his eyes and shifted, rolling his ankles to get blood circulation going again and raised his head, wincing at the pain in his neck from how long he’d let his chin rest against his chest. He’d thought about letting himself fall asleep while he waited to be relieved but with his luck, 8908 would have fallen over and had the clock restarted on his punishment. 

8908 had an itch on the sole of his foot but tried to ignore it. Even if his ankle hadn’t been cuffed, he couldn’t have turned far enough in his kneeling position to scratch it with his hands bound so closely together. He shifted, letting his weight move from one leg to the other, feeling the pins and needles of blood flow as he did. Great. Now his nose itched too. 

“Eyes forward,” an employee reminded him as they passed, followed by a Domestic in a violet dress. 

8908 glanced up briefly before setting his gaze on a water spot on the far wall. Were they going to make him sit through a Choosing or would he be removed before the client arrived? Surely they wouldn’t let such an eyesore remain on the showroom floor. He tried to keep his eyes focused on the spot but they kept wandering to the other Domestics, on the employees settling them up on the pedestals, setting up their informational placards. He recognized a few PAMs from his unit, so this must be a Choosing for a business person of some kind. 

8908 felt a flare of jealousy as he watched. At least the PAMs got to have hobbies, got to be trained in more interesting things than sucking and fucking. 8908 wanted to learn how to play violin, how to do Olympic lifts, or learn coding. Hell, he’d be happy to even know how to turn on a damn computer. 8908 rolled his shoulders to relieve the stiffness there but only succeeded in aggravating the pain in his back from how long he’d been hunched over. 

He clenched his jaw and glared at the back of an employee who was helping a PAM get set up with their sheet music. He heard a light buzz from around his neck and immediately went still, looking down again. God, he hated the cameras, the constant supervision and utter lack of agency. He wasn’t even allowed to glare now? Fine. He could keep his face neutral, trained. 8908 stared at the stain on his tunic and waited. 

When the showing finally started forty five minutes later, 8908 looked up to watch what was happening, but he was tucked so far back it was pointless. He settled on resting his hands on his thighs and looking at the imperfections of the marble floor while he waited. God, this was boring. He zoned out, trying to come up with names for the muzak that played softly overhead and forget the ache between his shoulders. How long was this going to go on? Would he be allowed to leave when it was over? His stomach growled but he ignored it. For being so concerned with his ‘calorie controlled diet’ earlier, the staff didn’t seem to care that he’d missed another meal and his afternoon supplement; he hadn’t even been offered a glass of water. 8908 ran his tongue across the roof of his mouth, feeling how sticky it was when a pair of loafers entered his field of view. 

8908 glanced up at the owner of the shoes. Young, male, brown hair and a suit with the tie too tight on his neck. 8908 looked down at his hands again, trying to remain as still as a statue. The shoes moved but not on to the next display. No, they edged around 8908, making a complete circle around him before stopping in front of him again. 8908 looked up, annoyed. 

_Like what you see, asshole? Get a good look. Think I’m embarrassed to be on my knees in chains? Fuck you._

He looked away, trying to control his facial expression before a buzz could be heard from his collar, but his silent observer seemed to be blocking the camera’s view because the warning never came. 8908 heard the clicking of heels and he shifted, trying to straighten his back and look appropriately demure so the GSC headed towards him couldn’t see his expression or slouch and rat him out. 

“Anything I can help you with Sir?” she asked, moving to lead the observer away from 8908’s field of vision. 

_Yeah, better get the client away from here, away from any imperfections in the carefully crafted image. You should hurry too, I can tell he’s still looking at me. We wouldn’t want him to take his money elsewhere._

8908 could tell they were still nearby without looking up. He could hear their voices even if he didn’t care enough to try and make out the words spoken between them. He was too annoyed by the pain in his back and legs to care what excuse the GSC was coming up with for why there was a product, dirty and barefoot, in chains on the showroom floor. He tuned them out. 8908 was here for punishment, not purchase. 

He only jerked and refocused himself when he could tell the pair was _still_ talking about him. 

“Can I see his skillset in action?”

“You’d like to audition him? There is a five thousand dollar deposit for the audition, to ensure the safety and wellbeing of our products.”

_Excuse me? Audition? You rich fuck, you wanna get your rocks off before moving on to your actual purchase? Fuck you, get an escort._

8908 looked back up, focusing in on the loafers the other man wore. 

“Ah, no. That’s okay.”

_Good. Stay the fuck away from me._

He raised his eyes higher, looking at the other man’s face, his expression, keeping his own calm and unreadable. He may be a product but that didn’t mean you were entitled to a free sample. 8908 stared at the other man, smug but calm. 

“I’ll take this one.”

_Wait, what?_

“As you wish Sir, I’m happy to process you-”

8908 couldn’t hear the rest, his blood was pounding too hard in his ears. This was a joke, right? The whole thing was an elaborate set up to make 8908 more compliant and appreciative for what he had at the facility. 8908 swallowed hard. Okay, he had to hold it together. They weren’t _actually_ going to sell or lease him again so soon, he’d only been back a few months. But fuck, he was already twenty seven, his market value was dropping by the day. No, this was fine, it was a joke. 

8908 stared down at his hands and slowly clenched and unclenched them, trying to control his panic. 

**

The entire day was a blur after that. 8908 was unchained and hauled to his feet and ushered away from the showroom, the guides ignoring the limp he’d developed from his time spent kneeling. 8908 wanted to dig in his heels, bolt the other direction. Maybe they’d kill him as he fled, or fuck, at least break his leg and render him unusable to the buyer. 

8908 did _not_ want to go with them to a new Master. Who in their right mind would pick the only Domestic in the entire showroom that was in chains? What kind of person would pick the only one hidden away, with a correctional collar plainly in view? Did he get off on other’s suffering? 8908 had done his time, he couldn’t do it again. He tried to calm down, to clear his mind and think clearly. They wouldn’t kill him or maim him enough even if he tried to run. There was no way he’d get far enough that the range on his collar would cut out. He’d be electrocuted and dragged back kicking and screaming to whatever fate awaited him anyway. 

8908 was stripped and redressed, pushed into the stylist’s chair to be scrubbed and exfoliated, plucked and tweezed, shaved and moisturized, hair twisted and pulled until it was sufficiently fashionable. He looked up at the stylist, wanting to ask what was actually happening, if this was serious, but the words died in his throat. The stylist wouldn’t know anyway. When he was escorted from the facility to the car, he thought about it again, about running, but the hold on his arm was strong and the collar felt tight around his throat. 

8908 looked at the woman next to him, the representative who was fussing with his paperwork and the correction device (silently reminding him that she had it). He licked his lips, debating whether or not he wanted to speak. The representative looked at him. 

“Yes? Something on your mind?”

“I- I wasn’t given a file,” he said weakly, looking for any excuse to not get out of the car as it pulled into an expensive looking apartment complex. 

He didn’t want to get out, didn’t want to be marched at the head of his own funeral procession. 

“Oh, Mr. Byers is a first time owner. I’m afraid I don’t have any behavioral parameters to pass on to you. The contract is a two year lease, so try not to embarrass us, okay? You really don’t need another black mark on your record,” she said, patting his hand gently. 

Two years? No. No way. That was too long. 8908 couldn’t do two more years as someone’s possession, their long term pet. His market value would drop too much in that time. He wanted to be back on the rental service, spend a weekend in Maui, a night in Spain as some socialite’s arm candy, new clients and places every week. _Two years?_ Stuck in one place with one person, especially one as questionable as the man who’d looked at a Domestic in chains and thought ‘yep, that’s the one I want’. No. 

“Ma’am…”

“Yes?”

“Do… does the facility think I’m ready for another long term engagement so soon?” he asked, praying for any kind of reprieve. 

She looked at him, sympathetic. 

“Honestly? No. And if it was up to me, I’d have recommended a longer recovery period with shorter engagements. But I wasn’t consulted. I’m sorry,” she apologized. 

8908 looked down, staring at his shoes, fighting a cold sweat. 

“Ma’am….”

“Yes?”

“Have you met him?” he asked, desperate for any reassurance that this wasn’t going to be another two years of living hell. 

“I’m afraid I haven’t. If it helps, his paperwork and requirement sheets were all well in order. I didn’t see any red flags.”

_Dr. Brenner’s paperwork was orderly too._

8908 jerked a little when the red headed woman patted his hand again. 

“It’s going to be okay. I really think it will be.”

He nodded, trying to convince himself more than her that he agreed with the assessment. He was only roused from his thoughts when the representative touched him again and led him into the building and onto the elevator. He followed her closely, seeking any kind of familiarity and protection he could get as she was greeted at the door by his new master and entered the apartment. 8908 kept his eyes on the ground, watching his feet and refusing to look up as the two spoke and the representative took a seat on a pearl white sofa. 8908 took up his position next to the red haired woman, not sitting because he hadn’t been invited too, instead standing as near to her as he could without physically touching her. She laid the files and correction device out on the table, spreading them so 8908’s master could look them over. 

“Eager to test him out? Understandable,” she said and 8908 stiffened a little, stomach dropping like a stone. “I see here that you’re a first time owner so there are a few things I’d like to go over with you before I get out of your way.”

“Sure.”

8908 glanced up at the word, focusing on the petite man who sat across from the representative. When the correctional device was slid across the table towards the man, 8908’s heart skipped a beat. 

“This is, unfortunately, due to you selecting a particularly difficult product. The device will allow you to administer a small corrective shock directly to the collar, just here,” the representative said, motioning to 8908 to lean forward. 

He did, exposing his neck and collar while his new master examined it and the representative explained the settings and voltage of his correctional collar. 8908 tried to remain still and quiet, letting the other man take his time looking it over. He hoped this one wouldn’t be liberal with it’s usage, his neck was still raw from that afternoon. When he was sure that he’d waited a sufficient amount of time, 8908 rose back up into a straightened posture and listened to the two talk about specifics and his possessions. What possessions? 8908 didn’t _own_ anything, not even the clothes on his back. His heart thumped uncomfortably but he kept his face well controlled as a small crew brought in and deposited boxes along the wall. 

8908 stood still as stone as the representative rose to leave, fighting the urge to fling himself at her feet and beg her to take him with her, back to the facility, back _home_. Once she and the crew were gone and 8908 was totally alone with his new master in the quiet of his apartment, at his mercy, he clenched his jaw. 8908 felt sticky from the cold sweat that was trying it’s hardest to erupt all over his skin. He felt like he was suffocating and he struggled to keep his face neutral as he finally raised his dark eyes to meet his new master’s.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8908 tries to figure out what is expected of him while navigating the puzzle that is his new Master.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: sexually suggestive content, food issues, disturbing imagery surrounding food, implied/referenced non con, implied/referenced physical abuse.

8908 looked at the other man (well, at a point slightly to the left of his ear so he wouldn’t have to make eye contact with his Master) fighting to control his breathing and expression while he let his Master examine him. He tried his best to stay still and quiet, allowing the petite man all the time he needed to look over and evaluate his new purchase. 8908 kept himself collected, hopeful that his racing thoughts and the cold sweat he could still feel pooling at the back of his neck weren’t obvious to his Master. The smaller man seemed to be taking his time looking 8908 over and eventually 8908 shifted his own gaze so it was more centered and he could look at the other man as well. 

His Master was shorter than him, slight of stature though not underweight the way 8908 was. He didn’t look particularly imposing or intimidating, but with the correctional device in hand he didn’t need to have the physicality to impose fear. A child could have commanded just as much control over 8908, just as long as the device was within reach. The man had straight, fine brown hair with eyes that matched the shade, narrow shoulders, and a straight, slightly sloped nose. He was younger than 8908 remembered him being, but that could have been because 8908 had only seen him briefly before, standing over 8908’s kneeling form. From this angle, face to face without anything but the other man to look at, 8908 could see him without any bias or distortion. No, he wasn’t exactly sinister looking. 

The man cleared his throat to speak and 8908 focused on his mouth, then lower, to his throat where two moles decorated his skin before landing back on the center of the shorter man’s face. 

“I’m Will Byers.”

“I know,” 8908 said, trying to demonstrate that he’d shown initiative, had taken the time to ask questions about his new Master even though he’d never been given a file or even more than a few hours to prepare himself for what was coming. 

Surely that would help endear him to the other man, show that he was committed to trying to be good, to trying to please. 

The other man only cleared his throat again. 

“I- I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name. What is it?” he asked, smiling a little at his own joke. 

And it had to be a joke, didn’t it? 8908 didn’t have a name, not a proper one anyway. No Domestics did. Yeah, some had names before their Domestication, but if 8908 _had_ ever had one, he didn’t remember it now. Some Domestics had secret names that they thought of themselves as or whispered to themselves quietly in the dark so the cameras couldn’t pick it up, but not 8908. He set his jaw, trying to repress the flare of anger he felt at being poked fun at. 

“It’s whatever you want it to be.”

“What do you call yourself?” his Master asked, trying to pry that hidden secret from him. 

Let him try. 8908 hadn’t had a name that lasted more than a week since his last Mother and he barely remembered her now, couldn’t recall what it was that his Mother had called him (other than Darling or Little One). All he remembered was her smell, her hands when she tended to a scraped knee or dried his tears, and the way her baking had tasted on a cold winter night. Everything else was erased now, lost in the fog that was one engagement after the other. 8908 shifted his weight, legs cramping a little from how still he’d been standing. 

“CPM8908.”

His Master laughed, apparently confused or amused by his resistance. 

“What?”

“CPM8908,” he said again, holding his ground. 

His Master shifted (displeased with 8908’s lack of cooperation?). 8908 braced himself for the shock he knew must be coming, but the device remained unused in his Master’s hands. 

“Did um, the last person you were with, that you worked for…”

8908 stiffened a little. _Brenner_.

“Did they call you anything other than your designation?”

8908 tried to speak, to be compliant, but what would he say? _Pet? Property? Possession? Thing? It? Subject?_ He settled on the one that made his skin crawl the least.

“Slave.”

His Master recoiled a little and 8908 stiffened again. Had that been the wrong answer? Should he have said something else? Should he have lied and just made up a name, something pretend that he could have let this man have as a perceived weapon against him? Still, even despite his mistake, no shock came and 8908 was grateful for that.

“Oh. Well, um, I can show you around if you like,” the man said, apparently having tired of trying to extract information from 8908 for the time being. 

8908 looked down, honing in on the correction device the other man still held in his hands, how he toyed with it. When his Master turned, 8908 kept his eyes on the other man’s hands, how they kept running over the device, feeling the ridges of it, the dials, and even over the activation button. The other man was speaking, something about a house warming gift (so he was new to the area), decorations, and some kind of white board where 8908 could write down anything he wanted or needed. Was it a reward system of some kind? If 8908 was satisfactory, if he did a good job, would he be allowed to ask for things? 8908 couldn’t concentrate on the words, he was too focused on the other man’s hands as they continued to stroke and turn over the device. Was he looking for a reason to use it? 8908 wouldn't give him one. He knew how to play the game; how to be soft spoken and submissive, the perfect plaything. 

He followed the shorter man through the apartment, glancing up when he was shown things but not registering the words spoken. He was looking for cameras, where they might be placed, what angles of view they might have. They were well hidden, 8908 couldn’t locate any in plain view. He paused when his Master did, just outside of a bedroom with the door propped open so 8908 could see inside. 

“This is my room. Your’s is just over here, next room over. If you ever need anything in the night or whatever, I’m just a knock away,” he said, laughing again, as if 8908 would ever _need_ anything in the night from him. 

“My room? We won’t be sharing quarters?” he asked, trying to clarify. 

Not everyone liked to have a body in their bed at night when they slept, but in 8908’s experience, other than Brenner, most people preferred to keep him close, within reach in case they needed him. Some liked to hold him, like a security blanket or stuffed animal. Others just wanted him around to make sure he didn’t bolt or so they could use him when they wanted.

“Uh, no? I have plenty of space, you can have your own room. It’s not huge or anything and I haven’t really decorated it, but it’s got a bathroom attached and a nice view. So uh, hopefully it’ll be okay,” the other man said, stepping away from his room and pulling the door shut. 

8908 followed, trying to keep up with the quick pace the other man set as the next door was pushed open, letting 8908 step inside. It didn’t look portentous. If anything, it looked strangely normal. The bed was made with a grey comforter with pale blue flowers and a matching bedskirt, the carpet still had vacuum tracks on it, like it hadn’t been walked in much. 8908 took a deep breath and smelled the artificial scent of flowers from an air freshener of some kind. 

“There’s body wash and shampoo and stuff in the bath but if you have preferences for brands or scents or anything, just write it down on the same board as the grocery list. Or uh, really, anything you need. Clothes, face wash, whatever. Just let me know,” the man said, shifting his weight and transferring the device from one hand to the other. 

8908 glanced at the attached door, still closed, then over his shoulder at his Master. Was the room given to him because Mr. Byers didn’t want to be reminded of 8908’s presence outside of the bedroom? What happened here staying here, like Vegas? Was he supposed to remain in this room until he was called upon? 

“Would you like me to stay in here?” 8908 asked, not wanting to make another mistake. 

“Yeah. Well, not all the time or anything. Just, this is your room. You know, your space. You can hang out and unwind here or in the living room when we're done working. Wherever you’re comfortable,” his Master said, offering more freedom than 8908 had expected him to. 

“Working. Oh, okay,” 8908 said, finally getting the picture. 

His Master didn’t want to share quarters because when 8908 was working, doing his duty, it would be just that. Mr. Byers wanted to keep his things appropriately distanced, not blur the line between his pleasure and his actual life. Having 8908 in the same room with him at night dirtied things up too much.

“When do we start?” 8908 asked, heart racing as he was acutely aware that he was in a bedroom, alone, with a man that had wanted to audition him at the facility. 

“I don’t have to be into the office until next week, so on Monday. You feel up to that?” the man asked, as if there was actually an option to say ‘no’. 

“I’m up for anything,” 8908 said, forcing himself to relax, to be as inviting and welcoming as he could be. 

If Mr. Byers was actually serious about allowing 8908 to wander the apartment as a reward for good behavior, he should get to work as soon as he could, showing his worth and value. There was no reason he had to wait until Monday, even if it was a kind offer to allow a week’s adjustment for 8908 to settle in. He didn’t need it. He knew how to be good, how to make a _client_ feel good. 8908 let his eyelids droop, trying to exude ease and anticipation. 

“O-okay. The boxes that were brought in, do you need any help getting your things put away?” Mr. Byers asked, taking a step away instead of taking 8908 up on the unspoken offer. 

“No. I’m perfectly capable,” 8908 said, taken aback by the question asked and step back, the rejection of his offer.

“Well, once you’re settled, you can come find me in the office. I’m going to go over the tablet Barb left, try and get used to it. So just whenever you’re done, head on over. I’ll be waiting. I wanna test out your skills since we didn’t get a chance to do that at the facility. Don’t rush, there’s no hurry,” the man said, looking 8908 over. 

Oh. The Office. A decent enough fantasy scene for a businessman, if a little boring. He watched his Master, waiting to see if anything else would be requested of him. 

“I’ll uh, leave you to it. Find me when you’re done,” the other man said, smiling again.

“As you wish,” 8908 said, feeling a little uneasy at that smile. 

Why did this man smile so much? It felt like a precursor, a promise. 8908 wished they could just get on with it already. He wanted to know, have _some idea_ of what he would be experiencing moving forward. Once his Master was gone, 8908 waited a moment before moving. 

He glanced around the room, trying to identify any cameras or microphones without drawing attention to what it was he was actually doing. He couldn’t be obvious about it, so 8908 walked slowly, as casually as he could towards the hall and the boxes of ‘his’ things. He collected them one at a time, making sure he had them all before actually opening them to see what was inside. Mostly clothes that 8908 tucked away into the chest of drawers and provided closet. One of the boxes though, it had an assortment of things that 8908 was in no way surprised to see. 

Rope, whips, cuffs, blindfolds, vibrators, candles, paddles, cages, gags, even a full sized restraint set. Yeah, this seemed more up to speed. 8908 kept his face neutral as he put things away, not wanting to give anyone who might be watching any indication of what objects 8908 was the least comfortable with, lest they get any ideas. He set up the restraints, clicking them into place along the bedframe and tucking them beneath the bedskirt and out of view. He took the time he had kneeling near the bed to let his facial expression falter, just a little. (Surely there were no cameras under the bed, right? Why would there be?)

As 8908 tucked the restraints away, he closed his eyes and clenched his fists. He wanted to scream. Most of that stuff was fine, nothing more than slap and tickle, but other things… those could _really_ hurt him if used properly. Had his new Master requested all these items in his application? He must have. Some rich yuppie fuck looking for a way to take out the stresses of life on someone else in the privacy of his own home. And then making the intended victim put the items away? Mr. Byers didn’t look that sadistic. He must be a wonderful actor.

8908 inhaled deeply, holding his breath to try and force his heart rate to lower. 

God, he missed the spoiled princesses, the trust fund babies, and heiresses. At least they only wanted to use him to show off or make themselves feel better or make an ex jealous. At least they were (mostly) soft and sweet, and would give him gifts. Yeah, some were demanding and high maintenance but it was pretty rare for one to actually do anything other than smack him around a little as a way to take out some pent up aggression or misplaced anger. 8908 recompossed himself and stood, heading towards the bathroom to take a piss. 

The bathroom was clean and well lit, with a wall plug in that seemed to be the source of the artificial floral scent that spread through the entire room. 8908 relieved himself and glanced around, looking into the vanity mirror as he washed his hands. Was there a camera behind it, like at the facility? Out of curiosity, 8908 reached out and tugged on the edge, surprised when it popped open, revealing an actual, functioning medicine cabinet instead of the mirror staying affixed to the wall. Inside were cough suppressants, icy hot, vapor rub, sunscreen, and a box of bandaids. He looked at the back of the mirror, ran his hand along it but it was flat and smooth, no wires to be found. Maybe in the light fixtures then. 

8908 shut the cabinets and pulled at a drawer, delighted when it actually popped open without hesitation. It had toothpaste, mouthwash, extra soap, and hand towels folded neatly into a stack. He closed it and reached for another, excited to see that it wasn't locked either. Inside this one was a hairbrush, mousse, shaving cream, and a _razor_ , still in it’s package and totally accessible. 8908 steadied his breath and kept his face as calm as he could. He looked at the blade briefly but didn't pick it up or touch or even fully acknowledge it, afraid to show any overt interest in the object that would be too obvious and set off alarm bells for any observers. He closed the drawer and opened the last to find plug-in refills and toilet paper. 8908 pulled open the cabinet beneath the sink, noting Clorox, Lysol, plumbers tape, grout mix, a toilet brush, and paper towels there. He shut the cabinet and turned away, back towards the bedroom. 

He was running out of excuses to keep his Master waiting. 8908 took a breath and headed towards the office he’d been shown on his grand tour. He watched from a crack in the door for a moment as Mr. Byers sat typing at his computer, eyes focused on the screen. 8908 steadied himself and pushed the door open a little, slipping in. Mr. Byers didn’t look up from the screen and didn't acknowledge 8908. He cleared his throat, trying to find a way to speak without being rude or intrusive. 

“I’ve completed my task,” he said, startled when the other man jumped a little. 

“Oh, you’re settled in already?”

“Yes Sir. I’m ready to demonstrate my skills,” 8908 said, trying to keep his posture relaxed and inviting despite his heart beat feeling a little out of sync. 

“Great. I wanna try out some things and see where you might need work. You know, what areas we need to concentrate on to get you up to speed,” the man said, standing to approach 8908. 

8908 didn’t know whether or not he should be offended that his skills were being called into question (he’d only been shelved for three months for fuck’s sake, it wasn’t like he’d forgotten how to preform), but he was more than willing to prove that analysis false.

“And I don’t want you to call me ‘Sir’,” his Master said, moving from behind the desk to position himself in front of 8908. 

Okay, at least 8908 was finally being given some relevant information. His Master didn’t want to be called Sir? Sure, whatever. 8908 had gotten his share of odd requests by now, this one was hardly anything to even blink at. 8908 stepped closer to the other man and lowered his gaze, trying to be submissive and coy.

“Okay… Daddy.”

To his surprise, the other man jerked and sputtered. 

“W-what did you just call me? First of all, you’re older than me. I read your file.”

8908 winced at being reminded that he was indeed aging, his value decreasing by the day. 

“Second of all, that’s not- that’s not any better at all! I just meant that you could call me Will. Why the hell would you call me _that_?” the man asked, turning away from 8908 in disgust. 

8908 paused, unsure. Okay, fine, 8908 was older than his Master. He wanted to be called Will? Addressed so disrespectfully? 8908 could do him one better. It had been a while since he’d had a dominant role but he could slip into it as easily as slipping into a jacket. He grinned and straightened his posture, using his full height to his advantage, to be as imposing as he could despite his lithe frame. 

“Oh, okay. I hear you. Sorry, my last Master wasn’t so young. Is this more what you want, Baby Boy?” he asked, taking a step forward, towards the smaller man. “You want someone to take care of you, huh? All alone in a new city, a new place. Need someone to bend you over that desk and show you who’s boss?” 8908 asked, watching alarm and arousal dance across his Master’s face. “Want me to take real good care of you, Baby?”

8908 watched the shorter man step back, observed him steady himself against his expensive desk and draw a shaky breath. 8908 reached out, cupping the other man by the jaw and forced his head to turn, exposing his pale throat beneath the collar of his shirt. 8908 glanced down at his Master, interested in how his legs seemed to go a little limp at the touch, how his pants tented just slightly at the words. Yeah, 8908 could work with this. 

“Is that what you want, Baby?” he asked, lowering his voice to a near purr. “Want Daddy to absolutely destroy you, until you’re crying, then take real good care of you after?” he asked, feeling his Master’s throat constrict under his hand as the smaller man took a shaky breath. 

8908 released him, startled when his Master twisted and jerked his face free. He stood motionless while the smaller man looked at him, face flushed and visibly upset. 

“W- what the hell are you talking about? I just wanted to see how well you could read and write.”

8908 stayed still, thoughts racing.

_Okay, I can fix this. Sure would have been easier if someone had bothered to give me an outline of my expected behavioral parameters but I can still salvage this, wing it if I have to._

He thought for a moment, considering how his Master had asked him to come to the office rather than stay in the bedroom. 

“Oh, student/teacher roleplay? I can work with that,” he said, taking a step back to give some of the power back to the smaller man. 

“Not roleplay. I-I really just want to see how well you do with that. So that when we got to the office I’d know what we were working with,” the man said, slipping past 8908 who let him go without protest, retreating a little. 

What was Mr. Byers talking about? What kind of elaborate fucking convoluted scene was this? What was the point? Did he enjoy playing hard to get? Did he want 8908 to actually try to, what, _win him over?_ 8908 looked cautiously at his Master. 

“What?”

“They uh, at the facility, they said you could read and write. I just wanted to see how well.”

8908 hesitated. How was he supposed to please this man if he had to guess what it was that was expected of him? He was sure to make missteps, maybe resulting in correction. He couldn’t take that risk. 

“I… I’m sorry Sir, I don’t understand this game. Can you, can you please explain it to me? Can you tell me what it is you want? I can do it I just- I need to know what it is,” he said, imploring his Master for some kind of direction, any kind of hint as to how it was he wanted 8908 to act. 

“I want… I want you to read that page and then copy it. And um, if you’re comfortable, type it out? So I can see if you need any help or if there’s a skill that needs attention and work?”

“I’m sorry, Sir, I still don’t understand,” he said, voice hitching a little with anxiety. 

“Because you’re going to be my assistant. And it’s Will,” the short man said, snatching up a paper and pen to hold near to his chest, like a shield. 

8908 looked at the pen and the paper in his Master’s hands (were they shaking?), unsure. Assistant? It was a role he’d never had before but how hard could it be to figure out? Did this man want 8908 to pretend to be a PAM so he could get into an office setting and pleasure him there? It was a little uncouth, but not something 8908 would refuse to do. He cleared his throat, trying to realign himself and the way he was approaching this, going again for submissive and obeisant. 

“Assistant? I- I’m sorry Sir, I don’t… Do you want me to blow you while you’re working? Do you want me to sit under your desk with your cock in my mouth at the office? Is it an exhibitionist thing?”

8908 watched in confusion as his Master took a step back and made a strained sound deep in his throat, face flushing red, hands clenching the paper and pen roughly. 

“N-No! Jesus, fuck! I just need some help at work! I was just hired on and as a signing bonus I was given,” he trailed off, waving in 8908’s general direction before continuing to speak at a frantic pace. “I really just need a little help at the office is all.”

8908 looked at him, still unsure but beginning to be alarmed by the reaction he was getting. The man was red, shaking, and looked so… so fucking _young_. Was it possible he was, was telling the truth? 8908 shifted, deeply troubled.

“I… I think there might have been a mistake, Sir. I’m not a Personal Assistant, I’m a Companion…” he said, voice soft, trying to explain as best he could that he hadn’t meant to over step. 

“I know. I um, I don’t get out much or socialize a lot so I kind of thought you could um… keep me company. That someone specialized in companionship would be helpful.”

8908 blinked, surprised. Was… was he for real? Had this all been a mistake? A misunderstanding? Did this man just want… a friend? 8908 looked at his face, tried to determine how old he was. Maybe twenty two, twenty three at most? Maybe he didn’t know? Was that even possible? 

“Sir, I-”

“-Will. Please,” the man said, cutting him off as he took another step away from 8908.

“ _Wil_ I… Do you know what a Companion is?” 8908 asked, taking a step away as well. 

“I mean, isn’t it in the name?”

“I mean, yes. It could be but… We’re more specialized in carnal companionship,” 8908 said, voice soft and a little sad at the possibility that there were some people in the world who didn’t know… didn’t have any idea of what was actually going on behind facility walls. 

8908 looked away, trying to give his young Master time to process what he said. 

“I understand if you’d like an exchange, Sir. I’m not what you’d intended when you entered into a contract,” 8908 said, keeping his eyes trained on the floor, face tilted enough that he was sure the other man couldn’t see the expression of hope that was trying to creep across it.

If this really had been a mistake, he’d be sent back, wouldn’t he? 8908 could be sent home if this was a mistake, if Mr. Byers wanted a replacement. It was almost too good to hope for, but he hoped anyway. 

“Can you read?” Mr. Byers asked suddenly.

“Yes.”

“Write?”

“Yes, Sir,” 8908 said, too startled to do anything but respond automatically and truthfully. 

“Then I’m not trading you in,” his Master said, pushing the items he’d been holding as a shield across the desk towards 8908. “Sit down. I still need to know if your handwriting is legible.”

8908 looked at the man for a moment. Should he have lied? Said he couldn’t do either of those things as a way to be sent back? Well, that ship had sailed. Besides, the GSC at the facility had already told his Master he was literate. When his Master whispered ‘please’ and indicated the desk chair again, 8908 sat. A paper was presented to him and 8908 looked it over for a moment before looking back up at the younger man. 

“Can you read that?”

“Yes.”

“Can you read it out loud? Just so I can see?”

8908 hesitated, suddenly wondering if this really was all part of some elaborate scene. Why else would this man refuse a replacement, someone better suited for what he claimed he wanted? Either way, 8908 should comply, to earn kind treatment. 

“Mr. Byers, this email confirms your recent payment of 146.37. As soon as your payment is processed, your policy balance will be updated accordingly. It may take up to three days for your bank to reflect the withdrawal from your account. Your confirmation number is 2SFJ-FD6HB9G9. Thank you for insuring with Gieco. Sincerely, your Gieco service team.”

“Good. Can you copy what it said into the notebook?”

“Okay. Sir, if this is a scene… Can you please just tell me? I just, I don’t know exactly what it is you want,” he tried to explain, still unsure of what he was supposed to be accomplishing with this.

“I don’t know what a ‘scene’ is, but I just want you to copy the email down. Then if you’re comfortable, type it out.”

_Christ, is he serious? How’d he get this far in life without knowing what a scene was? How sheltered is he?_

He stared at the other man, at how red he still was and how he was fidgeting so nervously. 8908 picked up the pen and started writing, having trouble remembering how to hold the pen and trying to mimic the way the letters looked on the paper when he couldn’t remember how to write them in script. When he was done, he looked back up, knowing full well that his handwriting wasn’t easy to read nor a thing of beauty. Good. Maybe he’d be dismissed from this miserable game and sent home if he couldn’t do what was asked of him. 

“That’s great. Do you feel comfortable typing?”

“No. I’ve never used a computer,” 8908 said, and it was the truth. 

He’d seen them plenty of times but no one had ever let him lay hands on one. 

“That’s okay, I can help. Here. Just look it over, try and get used to the keys. Type out whatever you want, it doesn’t have to be the email,” the man said as he pushed the keyboard closer to 8908 and reached over him, typing quickly ‘My name is Will Byers’ before pulling away and stepping back. 

8908 looked at the keyboard. It was so close to him, it looked so harmless. He felt a lump in his throat beginning to form. He slowly reached out, thankful that his hands weren’t shaking, and ran his fingers over the keys, feeling them beneath the pads of his fingers. He pressed down on one slowly, felt it give beneath the pressure he’d applied and heard the little ‘click’ it made when he did. He pressed another, relishing in the feel of it, the satisfaction at seeing the letters appear on the screen.

today is april third

He looked up at his Master, astonished that he’d actually been allowed to touch the machine at all. He set his jaw, trying to keep the joy from overtaking his expression, settling on _any_ expression other than pleasure. If he showed too much pleasure, it might be taken from him. 

The man smiled at him, apparently pleased and having no qualms about showing it.

“That’s great. That gives us a lot to work with. Are you hungry? Like I said, I don’t cook but I can order in. What do you want? Do you have a preference?”

“No.”

“Oh. Okay then. I’ll uh, I’ll order something. You can stay here and practice typing. Again, whatever you want. I’ll come get you when dinner’s ready.”

“Okay,” 8908 said, trying to keep his expression steady and unreadable, refusing to let even an ounce of joy be exposed. 

He could smile later, in his room, under the blankets where no one could see. 

“Ok then,” the man said, turning on his heel to leave. 

8908 watched him go, waiting to see if he’d return. When he didn’t, 8908 looked back down at the keyboard. He’d heard that people could access any information they wanted here, it was just a mouse click away. How could he access it? Should he even try? No, not right now. Not yet. He may have the illusion of privacy, but there was no doubt that all his activity was being monitored right now. This was a test of some kind, to see if he was loyal and amenable even when presented with a temptation as great as this. 

He was, or at least he could pretend to be. 8908 ran his hands over the keys and began to write. It was frustrating at first (Why did every letter look as though it should be capitalized if it was going to come out lowercase on the screen?). It didn’t matter much, 8908 would puzzle it out eventually, if given the opportunity. He typed and waited, ready to be called upon at any time. Maybe his Master was contacting the facility, asking for a trade? 8908 should enjoy this while he had it, the feeling of the keys beneath his fingers, the fact that he hadn’t had a correction since the morning. Hell, he hadn't even seen the correctional device since he entered the office. Maybe it was in his Master’s pocket, out of sight but still near. 

He didn’t know how long he spent typing, just trying to get used to the feeling and layout, but eventually his Master returned, standing over him to examine the things he’d written (trying to decide if it was acceptable?). 

“Dinner’s ready,” his Master informed him after a time. 

“Okay,” 8908 said but stayed still, reluctant to move away from the computer. 

“Well… Come on. Let’s go eat.”

8908 followed as he was led to the dining room, looking the elaborate spread over before settling into his place at his Master’s side. He stood quiet and still, waiting for some kind of indication as to what was expected of him. He hadn’t been invited to sit on the sofa while the representative and his Master spoke, nor had he been invited to sit at the table, so he waited.

“You can sit down.”

8908 did, dropping to his knees and folding his hands over his lap, eyes focused on the space ahead of him. After he’d been selected, the staff had been so eager to clean him and make him presentable for his Master, that they had forgotten to feed him _again_. The smells from the table were strong and heavy, but not appealing. 8908 waited, eyes forward for a time but his Master didn’t move. Eventually, 8908 looked up at him. 

“I-I meant at the table.”

“I’m sorry, Sir. My last Master preferred that I sit on the ground at his side, so he could hand feed me. Is this undesirable to you?” 8908 said, watching the other man twist in discomfort.

“He made you sit at his feet? Like a pet?” the younger man asked, eyes wide with… alarm?

“Yes Sir,” 8908 said, suddenly worried that he’d made another mistake. 

“I-I set a place for you. Please don’t sit on the floor.”

“I’m sorry, Sir. You’re a first time owner. The facility didn’t give me any information on expected behavioral parameters. I apologize if I make you uncomfortable,” 8908 explained, wishing he’d been giving something, _anything_ to help him know how to act, how to please this man. 

“Please just, just don’t sit on the floor,” Mr. Byers said, voice tight and pinched.

8908 rose to his feet, unsure. Was this okay? Was he actually allowed to sit? He glanced at the smaller man who was watching him, waiting for him to do as he was asked. 8908 did, waiting to see what would happen once he did. 

“You can have whatever you want,” his Master said, indicating the food before taking a water bottle for himself. 

8908 hesitated a moment before taking a water bottle as well, unscrewing it for a drink when the other man did. God, the water tasted good. He shouldn’t drink it too fast though, shouldn’t break eddiqutte. He needed to watch and wait and be as docile and agreeable as possible. 

“Honestly, it’s okay. Take whatever you like,” the other man said, watching 8908 watch him. 

“I don’t… I’m sorry, Sir, I don’t know what I’d like,” he said, not even recognizing most of the food that was presented.

“Well what do you prefer? Spicy? Sweet? I got a little of everything because I didn’t know. What, uh, what did your last home feed you?’

“Dried fruit and water. And vitamins,” 8908 added so the other man wouldn’t think he was deficient in some way.

“Is… is that it?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“What about the facility?”

“Ration bars, Sir. Fully nutritionally stable,” _if somewhat less than delicious_.

“How… how long has it been since you’ve had anything else?”

“I was with my last Master four years. I’ve been at the facility three months,” 8908 said, taking another drink of water.

After a moment, the man across from him shifted and 8908 looked down, wondering if he had upset Mr. Byers. He glanced up when food was pushed towards him.

“Try this. I’m sorry, I don’t know what will be gentle on your stomach. I didn’t know about your dietary habits. I have some fruit in the kitchen. It’s not dried but…”

8908 felt himself react to that, felt himself make an expression of disgust and struggled to quickly correct it, before Mr. Byers could see, and accepted some of the offered food. 

“No, thank you. If I never see a date or fig or apricot again it will be too soon,” he said without thinking, freezing when he realized what he’d done. 

Across the table, his Master laughed. 8908 stayed still, terrified of the sound. 

“Hey, it’s okay. All my dad knew how to cook was boiled eggs and tuna from a can. I still can’t look at tuna salad without wanting to puke.”

8908 peeked up from behind his curls. Was his Master… making a joke? He wasn’t angry? 8908 shifted, scooping some of the rice onto his plate. 

“My apologies, Sir. It’s just that the thought of fruit isn’t as exciting as it used to be,” he said, forcing down a bite of the food. 

It looked like maggots. Rationally, 8908 knew it wasn’t, (crawling, writhing things on necrotic flesh or rotting food) it was rice. Still, even though the grains didn’t move or twitch, 8908 had to force back a gag to tolerate it. Even the texture was disgusting, too soft and it squished between his teeth, making him cringe. 8908 tried to eat the soup instead but it was too sweet, so he concentrated on the rice, trying to ease the hunger that gnawed at him without vomiting from the irrational disgust he felt when he looked at the plate.

Eventually, his Master spoke again, trying to make conversation. 8908 responded when spoken to, tried to concentrate on the words spoken but had trouble because of the texture of the food in his mouth. 

Why was his Master asking so many questions? None of them mattered, did they? 8908 didn’t have hobbies or interests, he wasn’t a person, not really. He was here because he was required to be. Still, Mr. Byers had said he needed companionship, so maybe he just liked to chatter? To have a person shaped object to talk at?

8908 heard a plate scrap against the table and he looked up. His Master had pushed his own food away from himself and 8908 set his fork down, grateful that the meal was over and he wouldn’t have to keep choking down any more of the food. 

His Master made some noises, apparently trying to encourage 8908 to eat more, but he couldn’t. He rose to his feet, concentrating instead on clearing the table and washing the dishes, feeling the soap between his fingers, marveling at the open, half used bottle of it laying out for him to use whatever amount he wanted, whenever he wanted to. From the corner of his eye, he saw the smaller man pick up a bottle of liquor.

“Do you want any?” the man offered, showing 8908 the bottle.

8908 looked at it, at the amber color and the way it sloshed in the glass. He hadn’t drunk alcohol in years. From what he remembered, he used to like it, even if it made him sloppy and off balance. Was Mr. Byers trying to get him intoxicated? Trying to make him relaxed and enthusiastic, easy to disrobe and use? If his Master had anxieties surrounding social interactions, if he had difficulty interacting with people who were sober and clear headed, having 8908 get drunk might be easier on him. 

“Would you like that? Would it please you if I had libations? Got relaxed and loose?”

“It’s not about me, I just wondered if you wanted any. To unwind after dinner,” the man said, voice a little soft.

“If you’d like,” 8908 said, trying to show willingness to do what was asked of him, trying to be accommodating and useful.

“I um, I’m going to have a drink and try to do some work on the balcony. I’ll leave the bottle in case you decide you want some. Tumblers are in the cabinet.”

8908 hesitated, watching his Master pour himself a glass before retreating from the room, leaving the bottle where it sat. Was this a trick? A test? Should he drink until he was too blurry to care what happened, or should he leave it be, not touch the other man’s things? 8908 stood still, waiting for a long time before moving away from the kitchen. He cautiously stepped into the living room, looking at everything in it. It was clean, no dust on the shelves, no smudges on the windows. There were vacuum tracks in this room as well. Did Mr. Byers spend any time here, or just his office? 

8908 looked at the bookshelf, at the titles of the books and slowly raised his hand to run his fingers over their spines. There were _so many_ , and Mr. Byers said he was allowed to just… take them if he wanted? 8908 could have wept. He turned his attention away, looking at the picture frames along the walls and on the decorative tables. There were pictures of people in various poses; a kind looking woman with dark brown eyes, a lanky brown haired man who looked remarkably similar to Mr. Byers but who shied away from the camera, and what looked like his Master as a child. 8908 looked at them, not touching. His eyes lingered on one of what looked like his master as a teen, proudly showing off a computer screen with some gibberish text over it with a thin man with glasses leaning over him, smiling just as proudly.

8908 looked at the photo, at the man next to his Master and paused. There was a tattoo on his wrist, in the exact placement where 8908’s designation was. The tattoo was strange, what looked like the insides of a machine and like it was covering something beneath it. 8908 looked at the man’s face, at his smile, and he frowned. 8908 knew a Domestic when he saw one. Why was his designation covered? 8908 ran his fingers over his own wrist, wishing the mark didn’t exist. He remembered the razor in the bathroom and licked his lips. 

He eventually made his way to the balcony, to check on his Master and see if he was going to be returned tonight or if his services would be requested. He stepped outside and paused, started to see his Master reclined in what looked like sleep. 8908 considered leaving, but the other man stirred and blinked up at him, struggling to sit straight when he saw 8908 looking at him. 

“Can, can I help you? Is there anything you need?” his Master asked, voice a little heavy.

“Is there anything _you_ need, Sir?” 8908 asked, looking him over.

_When are you going to… ask for me?_

“No? I’m fine.”

“Do you require my services?” he questioned, letting his eyes wander down his Master’s small frame, lingering on him, inviting.

“No thank you, I’m fine. You can uh, you can have some time to yourself,” the other man replied, still trying to straighten his posture. 

“Are you sure? I can be quiet, discreet. You’re neighbors would never know,” 8908 insisted, wondering again _why_ the other man hadn’t tried to touch him, engage with him in that way. 

If he wasn’t going to be sent back (and it was beginning to look like he wasn’t), why was Mr. Byers playing games? Was it so 8908 wouldn’t be prepared? So he’d have a false sense of security and be taken off guard and felt some degree of terror when it actually happened? Mr. Byers _obviously_ had experience with Domestics (no matter what he said), the picture was proof enough for 8908. What angle was he playing? What was with this soft spoken, gentle act?

“I-I’m sure.”

“As you wish. May I… is it alright if I take a glass of water and a book from your shelf?” 8908 asked, testing to see the boundaries, if they would hold up to an actual request or if they were offered as a bluff.

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Sir,” he said, turning to go. 

He glanced back one more time, to see what Mr. Byers would do. Apparently nothing, as he stayed seated and unmoving in the quickly cooling night air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter and enjoyed seeing Mike’s perspective of events. I’m going to be busy for the next few days so I won’t be able to make another post immediately, but I hope I’ll see you in the next chapter. Take care of yourselves.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8908 takes matters into his own hands. Painful memories resurface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: SUICIDE ATTEMPTS. PTSD, graphic depictions of violence and self harm, past abuse, and sexually suggestive material. Graphic and disturbing imagery, normalization of violence.

8908 settled for taking a thick book from the shelf even though he knew he probably wouldn’t be able to finish reading it. He glanced over it, felt the cover between his fingers. _The Mists of Avalon?_ It was so well worn the pages frayed a little. 8908 held it loosely in his hand as he stood in the kitchen and hovered next to the sink. 8908 looked at the faucet for a moment before turning it on. 

He watched the water run before filling the glass and taking a tentative sip. It didn’t taste like the water from the facility; this tasted almost… earthy, like it was rich in minerals that hadn’t been filtered out. 8908 drank from it deeply before filling it again and padding towards the room he’d been assigned. He walked as softly as he could, not wanting to bother his Master who was still resting on the balcony. 

8908 put the glass down on the end table, where he’d put the objects that he’d unpacked and paused. 

_Don’t look at them. Pretend they aren’t there, just a reach away._

8908 lay on the bed, holding the book and listening for footsteps he knew would come eventually. He thumbed the pages of the book and tried not to look at the door, waiting for something, anything, to happen. It only took maybe twenty minutes before he heard them, the footsteps, the sound of a door opening. 8908 felt his breath hitch as he stared at the ceiling, but it wasn’t the door attached to this room that opened. It was too quiet, too far away. 8908 lay still for a very long time, just listening but not moving his eyes from where he’d locked them on the ceiling. He heard water running, heard it shut off after a time, (his Master must be showering, preparing himself) and then nothing. 8908 waited, pulse rushing as he tried to be as calm as he could. 

When nothing happened, 8908 stirred a little. He rolled onto his side and watched the door, having tired of staring at the same point on the ceiling. The door didn’t open so 8908 slipped off the bed and walked slowly towards it. He pulled gently on the knob, heart still pounding, and dared a glance out. The hall was dark and quiet. 8908 looked down it, let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting before stepping out. 

He walked as slowly, as quietly as he could and stopped at the closed down to his Master’s room. 8908 stood outside, tried to listen for movement without actually pressing his ear to the wood. All he could hear was the quiet hum of the air conditioning. Was his Master asleep? Had he drunk so much that he’d tired himself out, given himself whiskey dick and would be out of commission for the night? 8908 walked quickly, hurried to the front door and paused, heart thudding. He reached out tentatively to touch the handle, wondering (hoping) that it would open as easily as the cabinets and other doors had. 

The excitement died before it had even fully taken form when 8908 tugged on the handle and nothing happened. He withdrew his hand, looking the door over, but didn’t see a latch, a lock, nothing; just smooth wood. He clenched his jaw in frustration and pressed his forehead against the door. 

Fine. He hadn’t really expected it to be unlocked anyway. 

8908 took a step back. If his Master was truly asleep (as 8908 suspected he was) now was the time to explore. If he wasn’t actually asleep, if he was just pretending to be, 8908 would know soon enough. The cameras wouldn’t miss anything and Mr. Byers would storm out and correct him and-

8908 froze. He’d been so eager, so excited to check the door that he’d forgotten the cameras. If they were anywhere, it would be at the door, right? 8908 took another step back and glanced around. He still couldn’t find them. Fuck. Mr. Byers would see the footage, would know he’d tried to leave. 

_Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, right?_

8908 turned and headed to the first window he could find but it was locked and there was no latch to be found. He tried another. Nothing. 8908 looked at the balcony. It had opened willing for him when he’d gone out to check on his Master earlier, maybe it would open for him now? He tugged on the handle and almost cried in rage when it wouldn’t give an inch. Fuck. The more he looked for a way out, the deeper shit he got himself into. Checking the front door could be excused as an impulse, checking the rest had been a plan. 

Mr. Byers, soft spoken and gentle as he seemed, wouldn’t be able to let this behavior slide. He’d have to act, have to punish 8908; it’s what they would have done at the facility. Running was unacceptable. 8908 had seen someone run once, had even silently cheered for them when they almost made it to the perimeter. They’d been brought down like prey, shocked and writhing on the ground and had their ankle broken, hobbled, and their movements restricted for months until their will had been properly broken. That had been a predictable response, expected. 8908 had no idea, no way of knowing what Mr. Byers would do, if he’d be as reasonable and merciful as the Overseers had been with the MLU that had tried to run. 

8908 had tried to run from Brenner twice. The first time had ended with him shocked and dragged back, locked in the deprivation tank for… hours? Days? He didn’t know. Time was meaningless there, in the dark where he couldn’t see or hear or even orient himself well enough to know if it was the lid he pounded his fists against or the floor. 

The second time had ended with the skull fracture, a shattered jaw, and three teeth that couldn’t be saved and had been replaced with implants after he’d been returned _home_ , to the facility. 

8908 wished Brenner had just killed him instead of breaking his contract. It seemed almost lazy on his part (why hadn’t he just followed through and denied the medics access to the lab? Why had he let them come and collect 8908 instead of letting him bleed out at the bottom of the stairwell?) 8908 had been sent home once before, after he was stable enough to transport from the hospital to the facility; what was the likelihood he’d get so lucky again?

8908 let his legs give out, let himself slide down the door and pressed his back against the cool glass of it and tried to think. He was trapped, unable to escape, again.

If 8908 couldn’t leave the apartment, couldn’t escape the punishment he knew was coming, the two year contract of torture and years and years of servitude that waited… he’d rather be dead (and hated Brenner for being too much of a coward to just _let it happen_ ). That was the only way out of this misery, wasn’t it? 8908 had thought about it enough times, had hoped that a correction would be too harsh and that he’d just be set free… and the answer was _right there_ , sitting right on the vanity in the room he’d been assigned. The razor was unsecured and unmonitored (for the time being) and his Master was asleep. 8908 brought his hand to his throat, felt the collar there and thought about the device hidden away somewhere, waiting for activation. He thought about the broken bones, the hands all over him, the malnourishment (it wouldn't do to have him aspirate during experiments or surgeries), the needles, the psychological torture, and the _maggots_ and he couldn’t breath. 

Fuck this. No. He wasn’t going to do this again, not when there was a way out _just sitting there_ waiting for him to take it. 

8908 steadied himself and climbed to his feet, trying to stand tall and straight. He felt a twinge of surprise at how calm he felt now that a decision had been made, now that a plan was actually forming. 8908 walked towards the room he’d been assigned, feeling unusually light. He pushed the door open and stepped in. He walked past the bed, past the closet and towards the bathroom. He looked down at the razor in it’s packaging and held his breath. How would he get the blades free? He couldn’t pry them out with his fingers or teeth…

The glass. If he broke it, 8908 could use a shard to bend the plastic enough to pull the blades out. He just had to do it quietly, so he didn’t wake Mr. Byers. 8908 had been able to hear what Mr. Byers was doing one room over, had been able to hear the shower running and the hum of the air conditioner; surely the other man would be able to hear a glass break. 8908 tried to think and the unusual amount of calm he felt helped. 

There were washcloths in the drawer. He could wrap the glass in one and muffle the sound while protecting his hand all at the same time. 8908 opened the drawer and pulled out a dark blue cloth, laid it next to the razor and turned to walk back through the bedroom to retrieve the glass. He paused when he picked up the glass and looked down at the nightstand. 

_Fuck you. I may not be in control of my life but I’m in control now, of my death._

8908 turned on a heel and looked at the door. It had a lock on the handle and 8908 clicked it into place before hurrying back to the bathroom. There was no lock on this door but 8908 didn’t care, he was just excited that this was actually happening. 

Once he started, he’d have to move quickly. The implants in his chest that monitored his vitals would go off and alert the facility (it had been what had saved him the day he lay at the bottom of the stairwell after cracking his skull), so he’d have to be quick and efficient. 

8908 drank the rest of the water quickly (he really did like that earthy taste) and wrapped the glass in the cloth before raising it over his head. He hesitated for a moment but pushed the feeling of doubt aside (would Mr. Byers actually hurt him for trying to run? He really didn’t _seem_ like he was cruel, maybe he’d understand? He hadn’t touched 8908, had fed him and talked with him like an actual person... No. He’d picked 8908 for a reason, he’d asked for all those things in the end table for a _reason_. He was just, just a very talented actor. It was a game; one that 8908 had no desire to play). 8908 slammed the glass down, felt it crumble and shatter beneath his fingers before he peeled back the cloth to examine the shards. He selected a large piece, once that would suit his purpose and set it aside, ignoring the rest.

8908 pulled his shirt off and wrapped it around his hand to protect his fingers while he worked. It took a while, he bent one of the blades by accident but the other two were whole and straight and perfect. They’d work just fine. 8908 held them up in the light, celebrating his success, even allowing himself a smile. 

He glanced at the door and stood still, listening for any sounds of movement in the apartment. When he didn’t hear any, 8908 set the shard down and let his shirt drop to the floor. What if he got scared or hesitated and didn’t cut deep enough? 8908 looked at the small, broken pieces and took a shaky breath. He’d seen plumbers tape under the sink. If he covered the sharp edges he should be able to swallow some of the remaining pieces; he just had to make sure that he didn’t tape them so securely that the tape wouldn’t dislodge in his digestive tract.

8908 wasn’t particularly dexterous so it took him a few tries to get the pieces taped the way he wanted but he managed. Swallowing them was harder; his throat felt tight, his stomach contracted and tried to vomit them up with every swallow but 8908 drank mouthful after mouthful of water to help ease the way even as his body tried to gag and force them back up. After he’d swallowed eight pieces and the remaining razor blades, 8908 let himself slide to the floor. He was panting a little, still trying to fight back against his body’s attempt to regurgitate the foreign bodies he’d forced into it. Once he was sure he wasn’t going to vomit, 8908 stood again. 

Where should he do this? The bed? Poetic, but cliche. The bath then. 8908 stripped off his slacks, his socks, but left the briefs in place. He would hold on to this, this last piece of dignity. 

_You should have seen me naked when you had the chance._

8908 closed the drain and turned on the water, letting his hand run under it’s cold stream for a moment before recoiling. God, it was getting _warm_. 8908 shuddered and felt the pin pricks of tears forming in the corner of his eyes. He fiddled with the handle a moment, adjusting the temperature until it was almost scalding before getting in. 

He sank into the water, let it envelope him and leaned back. He took a deep breath and dunked his head beneath the surface, letting the water wet his hair. He reached up, annoyed to feel the gel still tangled in his curls and reached for the provided shampoo. He applied as much as he wanted and scrubbed hard, determined to get all the product off of him. 8908 rubbed a hand against his face, trying to push the sweat that had formed because of the hot water away from his eyes and paused. There was concealer and other makeup all over his hand from where he’d rubbed his face. 8908 reached for the soap and scrubbed at his face, trying to force all the makeup off. Once he was clean, he leaned back again, relaxing into the blessedly warm water and let it soothe the ache in his bones. 

He stayed that way a long time, just letting himself drift. But the water was starting to cool and the air conditioning was giving him gooseflesh. It was time. 

8908 felt calm, unusually calm when he picked up the blade and held it firm, over the tattoo on his left wrist. He looked at it, his designation, and slashed as hard as he could. 

For a moment, he greyed out, vision going blurry and almost dropped the blade all together. Oh, oh that had _hurt_. He blinked down at himself, shocked at how fast the blood was rushing out of his body and bit his lip to keep from crying out as he struggled to transfer the blade to his other hand. His fingers felt weak, it hurt to flex them, and they slipped against the blade from all the blood. He almost dropped the damn thing again when he could see the fat, the muscle, and the tendons of his arm beneath the blood. 8908 closed his eyes and struggled to keep a grip on the damn blade before bringing it to his other wrist. 

_Don’t panic, it’s okay. It’s just flesh. It’s temporary. You’re almost there._

8908 slashed as hard as he could with his shaking and weak hand and knew immediately that he hadn’t gone as deep on his second try. No, it wasn’t as deep as he wanted, but it would do. 8908 leaned back again and dropped the razor, letting it get lost in the sea of red and let his hands fall into the still warm water. 

8908 felt tired and light. He smiled again and sank deep into the tub.

**

Waking was _not_ what 8908 wanted to experience, but here it was anyway. He’d wanted to stay there, in the dark, blow out like a candle; just gone. He’d tried to sit up but found himself strapped down, unable to move anything other than his head. 8908 twisted, tried to break free from the restraints but couldn’t. He looked down at himself, at the strap across his chest, the cuffs on his hands and feet and screamed his rage to the quiet, uncaring world. He roared and thrashed and bared his teeth and cursed god. How had he failed? What had he done wrong? 8908 threw his head back and let out a frustrated howl of grief for himself (someone had to grieve for him and no one else would). 

This was wrong, all wrong. He was supposed to be free, finally, blissfully _free_. He let out another strangled wail, filling the room with his rage and hurt and disappointment. 

When a nurse came to check on him, on the racket he was making, 8908 cursed her too. Why wouldn’t she let him out? Couldn’t she see his pain? 8908 spat at her, threatened, begged, twisted, and fought when the nurse called for aripiprazole to calm him down.

“Wait wait wait, please, I’m calm, I’m fine. Please, please, I’m not psychotic,” he begged, trying to assure the medical staff. “I promise, I’m fine,” he whispered, voice hoarse from screaming.

It didn’t work and 8908 was going to be injected again despite his pleas (more fucking _needles_ ). He shrank away from it and tried to calm his erratic heartbeat but couldn’t. 8908 couldn't even breathe. He was trapped, tied down and the needle was going to pierce him over and over and inject him with things that made his veins feel like they were burning.

Brenner had already tried this variation of the serum and it hadn’t worked, why was he trying again? Just to torture 8908? All it had done was make his body ache with sweats and chills, made his muscles cramp and caused him to dry heave for hours after, gave him bloody noses and headaches for days. 

Brenner pushed 8908’s curls to the side, exposing his face and angled the needle towards his tear duct while 8908 wept and shook. The strap on his head was slick with sweat and slipped against his skin, letting him move only about a quarter of an inch from his shaking. 

‘Hold still. If I miss, you could have permanent brain damage.’

8908 tried to be still, wishing his fear was the kind that paralyzed him instead of the kind that caused that uncontrollable, full body shaking. The needle was hovering close to his eye and 8908 could smell the latex of Brenner’s gloves (he hated that smell). Why couldn’t Brenner just sedate him? Why did 8908 need to be awake for this?

‘Please.’

‘Hush, Pet. We’re almost there. I can feel it.’

The needle came down, in his arm, not his eye, and 8908 felt very tired and heavy. He relaxed against the restraints and stopped struggling.

8908 felt fuzzy, like he was spinning and falling and then he didn’t feel anything at all. 

**

The second time 8908 woke he was calmer but no less disappointed to still be alive. He rolled his head to the side to look around (there was no strap holding his head in place). He blinked in confusion at the person who sat next to him, frozen, powder brush in hand. 

“Wh...what are you doing?” he asked, voice scratchy from his earlier outburst. 

The man stood, set his makeup brush aside to move away from the bed, not answering 8908. 

“Hey, wait, what’s going on?”

The other man didn’t answer him, only touched his ear piece and spoke quietly into it. 8908 could see the tattoo on the other man’s wrist. MSS5984. 

_Coward. Talk to me, I’m right here. Don’t call them in, just **talk to me**_.

But he didn’t, he only stood to the side and waited quietly until the red haired woman who’d escorted 8908 earlier that week to Mr. Byers home entered. 8908 shifted, tried to straighten himself and be presentable for her. 

“Ma’am.”

“CPM8908. We were very disappointed to hear what happened, what you did. That’s not the kind of representation for the company that we expect from our products,” she said, taking up the seat next to him. 

“I’m sorry, Ma’am.”

“You were recommended for reconditioning and retraining at the Indianapolis location,” she said, shifting her weight and tapping the folder in her hand. 

8908 felt himself stiffen at that. Reconditioning could take months. Not even the MLU that had tried to run had been sent away for reconditioning. But even four to six months of zero privacy, of constant corrections and retraining was a blessing compared to a two year contract. 8908 looked down, trying to appear as repentant and contrite as possible despite the relief that flooded him. 

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. I didn’t mean to embarrass the company. That wasn’t my intent.”

“No, I don’t think it was. Intent, however, doesn’t change the results. You’re starting to rack up black marks, CPM8908. We’re very disappointed in you.”

8908 kept his eyes down and waited. 

“However, extenuating circumstances have determined that you will not be sent to Indianapolis. Not this time, at least. I don’t know what will happen the next time you try and pull a stunt like this.”

8908 tried to stay neutral, unreadable. He wasn’t going to be reconditioned? He’d just be allowed to go home? This was better than he’d ever dared to hope. 

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank Mr. Byers, he’s the one who insisted you be returned to him. You should strive to show gratitude and appreciation when you get back.”

8908 felt his expression falter. He was… being returned? Why? 8908 stared down at his hands, at how they were starting to shake a little. 

“You’re scheduled for delivery in about an hour. Can I trust you to cooperate with the stylist and the nurse?”

“Yes Ma’am,” he whispered, trying to think. 

He blinked when a nurse approached from the hall at the representatives' behest and stood next to him. 

“I’m going to remove your catheter now, okay? It might hurt a little.”

“Yes Ma’am, I understand,” he whispered, trying to be as still and unassuming as he could be.

This was the same nurse he’d screamed at, threatened when he’d initially woke. He hoped she didn’t hold it against him and she didn’t seem too; the catheter was removed with minimal pain and she undid the straps that held him down. 8908 tried to stay as complacent as he could while the stylist worked, dressing him in clothes that were too tight and pulling his hair into curls too rigid to be natural. 8908 was quiet and calm, trying to think. 

8908 didn’t fight them, now wasn’t the time. He may look like a person, may walk and talk like one, but he was barely more than a marionette; only moving or speaking when the person pulling the strings commanded it. He wished someone would just cut them already, those strings. Either he’d be free or he’d crumple and fall, broken and discarded.

8908 let himself be led from the hospital, to the town car where he was sandwiched between the red haired woman and a man in a suit. 8908 sat, eyes forward, watching the road. They were entering the highway now, where traffic was going too fast and the vehicle wouldn’t be able to stop. 8908 let his eyes dart to the side, past the red haired woman to the door handle. 

He lunged for it, fingers grasping the metal and pulled as he tried to force the door open (he was practically on the woman’s lap, struggling to get over her and throw himself from the car, into the fast moving traffic). He ignored the panic from the woman beneath him, ignored the radiating pain from his neck as the device was activated, how it made him see stars. 8908 ignored all of it and pulled as hard as he could on the handle. 

There was no click, nothing happened; the fucking door was locked. 

8908 fumbled blind, trying to disengage the mechanism as he was dragged back into the seat, off the red haired woman and away from his freedom. 8908 gnashed his teeth in frustration and pain as a needle was stabbed into the meat of his thigh and he threw his arm back, trying to knock the thing away. He felt numb, heavy, and _angry_. Why was _every attempt_ he made thwarted by these people? Why did they care so much?

8908 felt himself pushed back, felt himself struggling to stay upright as the drug took effect. This was humiliating, degrading, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. He let himself float, weightless and dead to the world, let himself be led shakily to the elevator with a firm hand under his elbow and on his back, keeping him from slouching. 8908 felt fuzzy, relaxed, and happy. This felt a lot nicer than whatever it was they’d given him earlier (at least this one hadn’t knocked him out completely). 

When he was set down on the couch 8908 almost laughed aloud at how soft it was, like sitting on a cloud. People were talking (did they ever shut up? Always with the _talking_ ) and someone was speaking to _him_. 8908 blinked, tried to clear his head enough to concentrate. 

Soft brown eyes were looking at him, a mouth with full lips was speaking, asking him another question. 8908 blinked again and tried to clear his throat to speak. It was Mr. Byers. His master was looking at him and 8908 couldn’t even clear the fog from his mind enough to know what he was saying, what he was asking of 8908. 8908 winced, sudden fear gripping him. He didn’t know what his Master wanted, what he was supposed to do. 

He had to stand, he had to present himself and ask forgiveness. His legs felt heavy and weak and 8908 gritted his teeth in frustration. 

His Master was motioning to him, to an envelope and making sounds too soft for 8908 to make out. The words sounded muffled, like there was a wall of foam between the men and 8908 tried to focus on Mr. Byers mouth, tried to read his lips. Fuck, had they dosed him this heavily so he wouldn’t be able to understand, so he wouldn’t be able to comply, so he couldn’t do what was asked of him and Mr. Byers would punish him even more harshly? Fear crept up his spine, overriding that euphoric, light feeling. 8908 tried to stand again and couldn’t. 

His Master spoke again but 8908 couldn’t focus on the words. His voice wasn’t raised, he didn’t seem as enraged as 8908 had thought he would be. Was it that quiet, cold burning anger, the kind that was more dangerous and deadly than anger that flared hot and burned out? 8908 closed his eyes and tried to steady himself, tried to focus, but still felt heavy and cloudy. Maybe he should disengage again, go back to that safe place where he was outside of his body. It was easy while dosed like this, to zone out and just drift off, into the muffled quiet of his mind. 

**

8908 blinked at the ceiling fan above him as it made it’s rotations. Where was he? 8908 pushed himself up into a seated position and winced, his stomach cramping in pain with the movement and he fought down a wave of nausea. Framed pictures stared down at him from their shelves and his blood ran cold. 

He was in the apartment. How long had he been here?

8908 looked around, looked himself over for signs of mistreatment or a struggle. Nothing looked amiss, nothing felt off or damaged. 

The apartment was eerily quiet. Was he alone? Not likely. His master couldn’t be far, he’d be back and 8908 would be punished (where was the fun in punishing an unconscious victim?) for what he’d done. 8908 looked at the door, heart thumping heavily. He’d tried once and failed, but when would he get another chance? What if Mr. Byers hobbled him the same way the MLU had been and he couldn’t even _walk_ for the next few months (forget trying to run)?

He stumbled to it, pulled at the handle and almost cried when it popped open. Without thought, without a plan, 8908 stepped through. 

The intensity of the shock he felt was like nothing 8908 had experienced before in his life. He felt his legs give out beneath him and his head smacked against the floor, bouncing back off it with a loud crack. His nerves felt like they were on fire, like he’d swallowed lightning. 8908 jerked and twitched, unable to control his own body’s movements. He’d never, _ever_ , had a correction like this before, not even from Brenner.

8908 didn’t know how long he stayed that way, twitching and writhing and _burning_ before he felt a grip on his ankles. He kicked and cried out instinctively, tried to dislodge the touch that set his already screaming nerves on edge. It was ineffective and 8908 was dragged across the floor and away from the hall. He almost screamed again from the pain of being dragged with his nerves this raw but his throat was tight and constricted and the best he could do was a low, pained howl. 

The grip on his ankles released as the shocks subsided, leaving 8908 kicking out weakly with every aftershock that made it’s way through his body, making his muscles spasm and twitch. 8908 pawed at the collar, grateful that the correction had ended but still struggling to breathe while he stared at the ceiling again. 

“Are you okay?”

8908 jerked and craned his neck to see where the voice had come from. It was his Master, seated a few feet away, face blanched. 

“I-” he tried to speak, throat still burning. “I’m sorry, Sir. I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

_Are you functional? You tried to run. Are you ready for another correction?_

8908 knew the gentle act was fake, had known he’d be punished. His Master had been waiting, watching for 8908 to see what he’d do when he woke, waited for just the right moment, the exact moment of euphoria at almost being free to gift him some of the worst physical pain he’d ever felt. 

“I’m sorry,” 8908 said, eyes watering and blurry, making it difficult to see. “Please, Sir, please. I’m sorry. Please don’t correct me again. I swear, I won’t run, I’m sorry.”

_Please not again, don’t put me in the tank. I can’t stand it in there, I can’t handle it. I won’t run. Brenner, please, anything else. I’ll do anything._

The mock executions, the sensory overload (is that what the shock had been? A new technique?), he even preferred the white room (there was no darkness there, no shadows or sounds, only 8908, alone) to the tank. The shock had hurt, felt like it dragged on and on but it couldn’t have been more than ninety seconds. The tank though... he’d be left there for days. 8908 flinched away when hands reached for him, afraid they’d drag him back to that silent, black place.

No. It wasn’t Brenner, it was Byers. 8908 shook his head to clear the memory. Mr. Byers didn’t have a lab or a tank, just the device and collar. Oh fuck, 8908 had lashed out at him in pain, had kicked and attacked the other man. 8908 close his eyes, afraid to look at the other man lest he provoke him. 

“I was just scared,” he explained. “I’m sorry, Sir. I shouldn’t have attacked you, kicked at you.”

_Take the blame, roll over and show belly. Beg for forgiveness._

“Please don’t,” _put me in the tank_ “shock me again.”

8908 lay still and quiet, trying to control his breathing and hide the wheezing sound it made every time one passed his lips. After a moment, his Master spoke again.

“I- I’m not going to hurt you. You’re okay,” the man said, voice soft and soothing.

8908 opened his eyes and stared at his Master, overwhelmed with relief. 

_’Strive to show gratitude and appreciation.’_

He struggled to his knees and had to clutch the other man’s clothes to steady himself as he bent to kiss the shorter man’s hands, to show supplication. Was he crying? His face felt wet and hot. 

“Thank you, thank you, Sir.”

“Hey, stop that, please.”

The order halted 8908 in his tracks. Was his Master still angry? 8908 looked up, unsure and seeking direction, any indication of how to behave to keep his collar from being activated again. His Master shut his eyes and sighed unsteadily. 

“Please stop. I’m not going to hurt you. Please, _please_ don’t act like that,” the man commanded, eyes still closed. 

8908 hesitated for a moment before drawing himself more fully to his knees. He folded his hands over his lap, trying to be calm and show the proper subservient posture, and waited. After a moment Mr. Byers spoke again. 

“Um, are you okay now?”

8908 nodded, eyes downcast. 

“I- I’m fine, Sir.”

It was a lie. His nerves still felt raw, his throat burned but he couldn’t show it, he had to be calm. 

“Will. My name is Will. You really scared me. Twice now,” the other man commented with that laugh he had, the one 8908 couldn’t decipher. 

8908 kept his eyes lowered, focused on his hands on his knees and tried to control the light shaking that happened every time an aftershock passed through him. 

“I’m sorry. I…” 8908 paused and winced as a particularly brutal aftershock rode him. He swallowed hard and tried again. “I’m sorry.”

“Please stop apologizing,” Mr. Byers said, voice still soft and low, having lost all hints of the laugh. “Do you… do you need to lie down? Can I bring you ibuprofen?”

8908 dared to cast a glance up, to try and measure his Master. Why was he asking? Some kind of concern for the sheer amount of damage he’d caused with the first correction he’d given 8908? A desire to progress the punishment further away from the hall, away from where his neighbors could hear?

“If you like,” 8908 responded, trying to be measured and even, to betray no anxiety. 

“Okay. Look, can you just… can you just go to your room and lie down? I’ll be in in a minute. I just, I’ll be there soon, okay? Just go lie down.”

8908 listened to the words, the command. Finally, something direct and easy to understand. Go to your room and lie down. 8908 could do that.

“As you wish.”

He stood unsteadily, worried that his legs wouldn’t be able to support him, that they’d give out and he’d fall to the floor again if another aftershock hit him. His legs felt weak, but blessedly strong enough to carry 8908 down the hall, even if he had to press his palms to the walls to steady himself from time to time. 8908 entered the room, closed the door behind himself, and paused. The lock was gone. That tiny, ineffectual piece of security had been taken from him. 8908 felt his nose sting and his vision blurred again from the tears that had started to swell there. 

8908 rubbed his eyes roughly to clear his vision and looked at the bed. 

_’Go to your room and lie down. I’ll be there in a minute.’_. 

8908 took a breath, tried to steady himself again, and peeled his shirt off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter doesn't follow every scene in the sister chapter for part one, but if I tried to fit it all in it would have been over 8,000 words and I really didn't want to cut anything out of this chapter because it all has relevance and importance to Mike and his character development. Both fics follow the same story but they will diverge from time to time, as if the case with this chapter. 
> 
> I've been a little stressed lately and it's coming out in my work. I was talking to a friend online the other night and we were discussing how I sometimes use my writing to work through my own emotions and personal trauma, so it tends to come out from time to time, so please bear with me on this. I've also been spending some time working on TFoF and I'm finally gonna wrap it up and get that posted here in the next few days. After that, it might be a while before I post again, I have a lot going on but I promise, I'll update as soon as possible.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Comments and Kudos are always appreciated. As always, take care of yourselves out there guys. The world is a mess. I'll see you in the next one.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8908 tries to apologize and make up for his misdeeds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: past abuse, sexual content/language, low self esteem and depression.

8908 let his shirt drop to the floor and looked down at the bed. 

_’Go to your room and lay down. I’ll be there in a minute._

That didn’t give him much time. What could he do to lessen the punishment, ingratiate himself after what he’d done? 8908 looked at the bed and the end table (filled with all those things his Master had requested) and considered his options. 8908 should select something himself rather than hope for the best if the choice was left to Mr. Byers. He’d pick something distracting and arousing enough to make the other man forget (or lessen) his anger and redirect him enough to keep him from actually hurting 8908 more than he already had. 

He settled on the restraint set. Having spent enough time in them over the years and the last few days to know he could handle them in his current state, 8908 pulled them out from their hidden place beneath the bed and stripped quickly. He took a moment to breath and kicked his clothes under the bed and out of sight. 8908 settled onto the bed, felt it shift beneath him, and pulled the restraints into place, leaving on hand free. 

He hesitated a moment before draping the comforter across his waist and gripping himself beneath it. 8908 bit his lip to repress a whimper from escaping him while still burning from the pain of his fried nerves and tried his best to become aroused. 8908 had to do this, fluff himself up a little despite the anxiety and residual shocks. He couldn’t offend his Master, not now, and he couldn’t trust himself enough to do it once the act began. 8908 closed his eyes and jerked himself, trying to get excited enough to function and 8908 let his mind wander; away from this room, away from this place. He thought about soft brown eyes and smiling lips and whispered secrets. He thought about rushed touches and heavy breathing and when he was sure it was enough, 8908 withdrew his hand and struggled to get his wrist in place to wait. 

The knock on the door made 8908 jump and his skin crawl. When Mr. Byers entered the room, 8908 shifted, used his hands to grip the restraints and keep himself steady as he looked over at the shorter man. 8908 tried to keep his expression relaxed as his eyes wandered to a tray Mr. Byers carried in his hands (more tools? Unknown ones?). Mr. Byers paused in the doorway, surveying the scene. His eyes were wide, his face flushed and he averted his gaze from 8908 to the floor almost immediately. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, eyes still not focused on the taller man. 

8908 wriggled, tugged on the restraints again which gave a little squeak beneath the pressure he applied. 8908 used them to right himself, pulled himself a little taller so that he was less reclined, less disrespectful while in the presence of his Master and licked his lips as he saw the tell tale bulge of arousal starting beneath the younger man’s belt. 

“Whatever you like, Sir,” he whispered, trying to keep his eyes trained on his small Master’s face, trying to get a read on him but having difficulty because the other man kept looking away. 

“Can you get out of that?”

8908 pulled on the restraints again, demonstrating their strength and his relative weakness when compared to them. His Master knew 8908 had to be sedated before; 8908 had to show the other man that the situation was safe, that he didn’t need to use the correctional collar to control his slave, that _he_ was in control and that 8908 wasn’t a threat now. 

“Not on my own, Sir. I’m at your complete disposal,” he assured the other man, keeping himself taunt against the leather that held him even though it caused his shoulder to ache, a painful reminder of the old injury. 

“How… Did you even get into that thing?” Mr. Byers asked, eyes still downcast, still not looking at the scene before him.

“Ankles first. One wrist, then the other,” 8908 said, shifting and moving, hoping to draw attention to himself, to make the other man look at him instead of whatever was on the tray. 

“So you can’t get out of that?” his Master asked, searching for assurance that it was alright, it was safe for him. 

“Not without help.”

His Master stepped closer (satisfied with the answer and display 8908 had given him) and set the tray down on the nightstand. 8908 tried not to look at it, tried to keep his eyes on the shorter man as he moved closer to 8908. Mr. Byers finally looked at him, at the restraint set. When his Master tugged on one, testing it for himself, 8908 shuddered. He moved, tried to show enthusiasm and arousal even if he didn’t feel it ( _just pretend_ ). It was easier with his Master looking at him now, brown eyes raised. His eyes were a different shape, but the color was close enough (if a little darker, touch more green to them) than 7227’s had been, and it helped to have something to look at, to use as a visual aid for his imagination. 8908 wiggled, let his cock press against the comforter and tried to dissimulate. 

“Can you stop that please.”

8908 froze, startled. His Master didn’t want him to move, wanted him to be still? 8908 could do that; he could be still as a corpse. 

8908 watched Mr. Byers walk around the bed, towards his feet. Would he start stripping there, climb up the length of 8908 and do as he pleased? Would he tug down the comforter and leave the taller man exposed, laid bare and helpless?

The smaller man cleared his throat.

“Where’s the key?”

“Bedside drawer,” 8908 answered as he tried to be as still and quiet as he could, exactly as requested.

“If I unlock one wrist, can you do the rest?”

8908 swallowed, unsure why the question was being asked at all. Why wouldn’t this man look at him, give him some hint as to what it was he wanted 8908 to do? But he’d been asked a question and had to answer it. 

“I… can unlock the rest. As long as I have one arm free.”

“Okay. Good. Um, give me a second to grab the key and I’ll uh, I’ll get you out of there,” the smaller man said quietly, moving back towards the head of the bed. 

_What? Why? Isn’t this what you want? Just tell me, I can do it. I know you want me, I can tell. I’ve always known why people wanted me, what my use is. Ever since the first time someone touched me too intimately, the first time someone looked at me too long, I’ve known. I just have to know what you **want me to do**_.

8908 watched, still trying not to move, trying to do the only thing Mr. Byers had actually directed of him. He watched as his Master pulled the drawer open and paused to examine what was inside. 8908 held his breath as the other man reached in, moved his hand a little as he searched, and emerged with nothing more than the key. When the smaller man took him by the wrist and turned his hand over to expose the lock, 8908 clenched his jaw in pain but refused to make a sound. 

When the key slipped into the lock, 8908 watched in quiet astonishment. He was even more astonished when the younger man dropped the key into 8908’s open palm and took a step back before turning away. 

“Um, get yourself out of there and get dressed. I’ll be outside. Get me when you’re done,” the shorter man said, another direct command. 

His voice was soft, his back still turned to 8908, refusing to look at him. 8908 shifted, rubbed the key between his fingers and averted his own eyes from where he kept them on the other man’s back, suddenly very self conscious and insecure with himself, with his behavior. 

“Okay,” he breathed, forgetting even to tack on a ‘sir’ to show respect. 

He stayed that way, looking down at his own hand, at the key, until his Master was gone. The younger man had shut the door without bothering to spare a glance behind, leaving 8908 alone in the quiet of the room he’d been assigned. 8908 hesitated for only a moment before twisting to unlock himself and set his throbbing wrist free from it’s confines in the cuff. 8908 rubbed his wrist, trying to soothe it and gave silent thanks that he hadn’t bleed so heavily that he stained the comforter Mr. Byers had given him. He quickly turned his attention to his ankles and rolled off the bed, hurrying to dress, suddenly very ashamed of his nakedness. 

8908 had never really been embarrassed about his body; not since he was a skinny kid with uneven teeth and limbs that had grown too fast for him to have any hope of grace or mastery over. He hadn’t understood it at first, when people started paying attention to his body. He was awkward with lips that were too big and ears that were too wide and a nose that was too large but there must have been something appealing about him, right? Because that’s where his value lay, in his appearance. 

8908 knew he wasn’t clever or dexterous or strong. He wasn’t artistic or quick witted or special in any way other than his looks. People wanted to touch him, they _wanted_ to look at him. 8908 had learned not to care that he was lanky and thin, not to care that he had ordinary brown eyes and ugly freckles that looked like pock marks and a voice that was too deep for his frame. 8908 hadn’t been ashamed of his body in years, not until now. 

He’d built dozens, hundreds of coffins for different pieces of himself over the years. He’d craft each one with love and with care, choosing only the finest pieces of lumber, sanding them down and applying the lacquer with gentle brush strokes until those coffins were fit to put in the ground, never to be seen again. 8908 had buried his innocence first, his fragility. 8908 had built little coffins for his modesty and his hopes, his pride and his autonomy. He’d even buried his very sense of self and individuality (maybe even parts of his sanity) in the dark depths of the tank. He’d crafted coffins and buried them all with every piece of who he was until nothing remained except a shadow trapped in a human shaped vessel. 8908 never thought he’d have to build a coffin for this though. 

Mr. Byers hadn’t touched him (a blessing in all honesty, 8908 was still raw from the shocks and even the fabric on his skin felt like fire) other than to undo the lock. Mr. Byers hadn’t even wanted to _look at him_ and that… that shamed 8908 more than he cared to admit. 

8908 pulled on his clothes and every article was another nail, another brush of lacquer for the vessel where he would lay this last piece of himself. 

When 8908 was fully dressed, he pulled open the door a little, allowing his Master to cast a glance over his shoulder. 8908 let his own gaze drop to the floor, too ashamed even to meet that look with one of his own. When his Master finally turned to face him, 8908 took a step back to allow him access to the room so the shorter man could enter. 

“Thank you,” the other man said curtly. “Do you mind sitting down? I brought some things I thought might help.”

“Of course, as you wish,” 8908 whispered, throat tight and lacking even the self respect to look at the man who commanded him. 

He stepped past his Master to take a seat on the bed, looking no higher than the other man’s shuffling feet. 8908 watched those feet move until he was roused from his thoughts as something was offered to him. 8908 accepted the water and stack of unknown pills and threw his head back to swallow them all six in one go, hoping at least one of them was the same as what he’d been given at the hospital, the kind of pill that made him fuzzy and light and well out of his head for a time. They caught against his swollen throat and 8908 had to drink the water to ease their journey to his still cramping stomach. At least with all the cramping, he wasn’t hungry. 

The flow of high calorie slurry that he’d been administered at the hospital via the feeding tube threaded from his nose to stomach may have provided all the nutrition he needed but it had done little to satiate any actual desire he had to eat. The cramping though, that took care of 8908’s desire to eat just fine. 8908 swallowed the pills he’d been given and wondered what effect they would have. He kept his eyes trained on that spot on the other man’s throat that had the moles, the one he was beginning to use as a default location to look when he couldn’t meet his Master’s eye, and waited.

“Can you scoot a little closer and turn your head please? I want to look at those burns. From the collar.” the shorter man asked, making his adam’s apple bob while 8908 watched the moles there move in time to his words. 

Mr. Byers voice was calm and low, barely more than a whisper and with no more feeling than a recording. 8908 moved closer and turned his head. He resisted the urge to flinch as his Master bent to examine him, examine the damage he’d caused. 8908 let him, he let the smaller man adjust the collar so more of the skin was exposed and tried not to flinch when something cold and soothing was sprayed against the burns. 

“Sorry if it’s cold,” his Master said, voice still low and gravely, tight with some unexpressed emotion. 

8908 cast him a glance and tried to determine what emotion is was Mr. Byers was attempting to hide. 8908 didn’t speak, didn’t want to interrupt this because whatever it was his Master sprayed on him was calming the inflamed skin and soothing the hurts he felt and he didn’t want it to stop. So 8908 kept quiet and tried not to move when the younger man’s hands actually touched him to manipulate the collar further, study the injury more clearly. Every touch (no matter how tentative or soft) hurt. 8908 was blistering under the collar and every time Mr. Byers tried to clean one wound the prongs would press into the others, making them scream in protest. Through it all, 8908 tried to be still and silent, limp and accommodating. He focused on his Master’s gentle touches instead of the pain they unintentionally caused. 

Mr. Byers didn’t seem like he was trying to cause any hurt and 8908 appreciated it, especially if the speed at which he worked was any indication of how distasteful he found touching 8908 to actually be. When the other man dropped his hands from 8908’s neck to his arms, 8908 offered them willingly, letting his Master set to work unwrapping the ruined flesh there. 

They were ugly, the wounds. They were swollen and irritated from the cuffs and they bled and wept clear fluid. 8908 looked at them as Mr. Byers winced at the sight, the ugliness of it all. The other man wouldn’t even look at 8908 when he was at his most desirable, bound and writhing on a bed. This must be difficult for him to endure but 8908 was grateful that the younger man was at least trying to help despite his discomfort. 8908 watched his Master clean the wounds with qtips and cotton balls, trying to draw out the dried blood and infection that threatened to take root. The touches were gentle and 8908 almost relaxed into them until the other man spoke. 

“Why did you do that?”

“Sir?”

“It’s Will,” the other man reminded 8908, softly scolding him. “And I mean, why did you do that? Tie yourself up. I didn’t ask you to. So why did you?”

8908 didn’t know what to say. Was his Master upset that he’d made a decision of his own? Was he angry that 8909 had made a conscious choice rather than following the order exactly? He settled on honesty, not having the confidence in himself or erudition for lying.

“I… was trying to apologize. I know you’re angry with me for what I did and that you asked them to bring me back here for a reason instead of returning me to the facility and… I was just trying to please you,” he breathed, still watching the other man work on the ruin of his arms, wondering why he’d been brought back here at all. “I was afraid when I woke up, and it seemed too easy to just... “ _to try the door, try one last time to make it to safety and freedom._

“I didn’t know what you’d do, so I tried to run. I’m sorry about that, I’ll never do it again, I swear,” he added quickly, not wanting to remind his Master of what it was he’d done to cause the correction in the first place. Better to redirect. “I didn’t know if the shock when I tried to leave was… was all you’d do. I just wanted to… please you,” he said, keeping his eyes steady and downcast, trying to be demure, trying one more time to be appealing in any way he could.

_What is it that you want? Why won’t you just tell me?_

“I’m sorry that I caused you inconvenience and that I still am…I’m sorry. What can I do to apologize?” _Why won’t you just tell me?_ “I… you didn’t seem to do anything when I was out, and then you sent me to the room, to the bed… I thought I was doing what you wanted,” _what people always want from me._

His Master stilled a little as 8908 spoke and when 8908 looked up again, his Master was finally looking at him. 

His eyes were wide, his face a little blanched and his mouth was parted, just a little. What did that look mean? Why was he looking at 8908 in a way that too closely resembled pity? No one felt pity for Domestics. No one cared enough to. 

“That shock… I didn’t do that. It’s- it’s an automatic system. I didn’t, I wouldn’t do that to you,” the younger man said, voice soft. “Of course I didn’t touch you when you were drugged. For fuck’s sake... And I’m not going to rape you because you got scared and tried to run. I’m sorry that happened, the shock, I mean.”

8908 looked down at his Master’s hands, how they were shaking a little as they continued their work applying white cream to the wounds and dabbing it in.

“And I’m sorry if I did something to make you feel like you needed to… to do that so I wouldn’t hurt you,” the man whispered, only pausing his work on 8908’s arms to motion to the restraint set. “I don’t know why you tried to um… do what you did that night but I’m not angry or anything. And I get it, being scared and wanting to bolt. So I’m not going to hurt you because of it.”

8908 listened to the other man, tried to analyze his expressions, his voice and speech patterns. Was he… being honest, sincere? The way his Master’s voice shook, the way his hands trembled and he licked his lips… it almost seemed real. And his hands were gentle, his eyes soft as his voice. 8908 wanted it to be real. 

“You don’t have to do any of that sexual stuff, you know. That’s not why I chose you.”

_But I can’t do the things you said you want me for. I don’t know how, no one ever taught me. There’s a reason I wasn’t selected for that training. I’m dull and stupid and there’s a reason I don’t know how to do the things you want. Sex though, that I can do. I’m good at it and I know what I’m doing. It might not have been the intent when you purchased me but-_

“-It has to be a perk though, right?” he wondered aloud, silencing himself as soon as he realized he’d spoken.

His Master looked at him, wet his full lips before he spoke. 

“Look, I didn’t know what a Companion was when I picked you but I really do mean it. I don’t need you to do any of that. And I don’t want you to feel like you need to fuck me to keep me from hurting you,” he said voice still soft, having difficulty looking at 8908. “I’m not going to do that, hurt you I mean.”

_So you won’t hurt me, but you didn’t say anything about not fucking me. Is that something you want to do? Your face is flushed, I know you react to me, even if only a little._

“I just need help with work and someone to talk to so I don’t need any of that other stuff. So… you can talk when you want to and you can stop the rest of that.”

8908 thought about it, those words. If his Master was being honest, if he was telling the truth, 8908 could… could relax a little? His Master just wanted someone to talk to, to be near? 8908 didn’t _need_ to do the rest? 

“Don’t you find me attractive?” he asked suddenly, needing to know if he’d misread the signs, the flush that crept up from beneath his Master’s collar towards his face. Was that arousal or was 8908 simply making the other man uncomfortable?

His master laughed, a painfully unbearable sound that pierced 8908 like an arrow. Was it that funny of a question? Was 8908 that repugnant? He wilted a little, preparing himself to lay another coffin in the ground. 

_Please don’t take that from me. I already have next to nothing, don’t take that too._

“I mean, you’re obviously a good looking guy,” the shorter man said, keeping his eyes trained on his work. 

“Do you want to fuck me?” 8908 asked, relieved and confused by the response. 

_If you’re attracted to me and I’m your property, you can do what you want. You wouldn’t get in trouble for it, there’s a contract in place. Money’s exchanged hands, documents have been signed. There’d be no legal repercussions, no one would think less of you for using your property for what you want, so why don’t you?_

8908 watched his Master squirm and pick at the label of the water bottle, pulling it off and rolling it between his fingers before answering. 

“No. No thank you.”

“Why?” 8908 blurted out, confused. 

His Master was a puzzle. Why wouldn’t he just take something he wanted? 

“I- I mean you’re a person. I barely know you. Even if I wanted to be sexual with you, shit, shouldn't I at least buy you dinner first?” the younger man asked, cracking (what 8908 was beginning to realize was) a nervous smile. 

_I’m not a person. I’m a Domestic. I’m not a person, **I’m a product**. There’s a difference._

“You did. You bought all of me,” 8908 pointed out, not understanding his Master’s reasoning. 

The other man stopped fidgeting, stopped rolling the label between his fingers and didn’t respond. 8908 watched him, curious and a little concerned that he’d said the wrong thing. Why had he been invited to speak if everything he said was the wrong thing to say? When Mr. Byers took a step back, 8908 watched that too. 

“Um, don’t move, okay? I have to get something but I’ll be right back.”

8908 watched him go and tried to be as still as he could, to make up for how he’d apparently upset his Master ( _again_ ) and just do as he was asked. He didn’t have to wait long, his Master returned fairly quickly and set to work again on 8908’s arms. His Master didn’t speak to 8908 while he worked, so 8908 kept quiet as well. The bandages the petite man applied to him was looser than what had been applied at the hospital and 8908 was grateful for it. At least it didn’t hurt this way. 8908 actually almost enjoyed it, the feeling of Mr. Byers cool hands on his inflamed skin, touching him with care. It was the most tenderness and consideration anyone had shown while handling him since Dr. Buckley. When the other man released him and took a step back, 8908 felt a pang of… something, something unnamable and unknown. 

“I was serious, you know,” the younger man said as he picked up the first aid kit he’d brought with him. “I want you to feel like you can talk when you want to. I don’t know what I did that made you feel like you needed to run or… you know,”

_Try to kill myself?_

“- but you can talk to me. If you want to. Or not, don’t feel pressured either way. Just like… like you’d talk to other Domestics at the facility. I- I kind of hope that we’ll be able to trust each other eventually. That you’ll be able to trust me.” 

8908 hesitated. This wasn’t the first time his Master had invited him to speak freely, even if it seemed to upset or offend him when 8908 did. Why did he care if 8908 spoke his mind? 8908 didn’t have anything of substance to say. He knew how to talk, of course, how to hold a conversation and answer questions and make pleasing jokes but he didn’t have anything of value to add. And as far as speaking to other Domestics, ‘Greetings, it’s a lovely day’ was about as far as he’d ever gotten. He watched his Master and tried anyway. 

“I didn’t talk to the others.”

“They didn’t let you talk to each other?” the man asked as he fiddled with the latch of the first aid kit. 

“No. Not really. Socialization was discouraged so we wouldn’t form connections. We were rotated between units and buildings every few weeks so we didn’t get familiar enough to form attachments,” 8908 explained as simply as he could, like he was talking to a child, someone unfamiliar with the ways of the world and all it’s goings on. 

“So you didn’t have any friends?”

Friendship? Between Domestics? It was a laughable concept. If 8908 had ever had a friend it was 7227, and it was a short lived mingling (and a perfect example of the need for rotations between units). 

“No. Familiar faces but people came and went.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mr. Byers asked, still looking down at his own hands. 

“Talk about it? What’s there to say? We existed near each other but I honestly don’t remember anyone’s designation or temperament,” 8908 tried to explain.

A half truth. He’d known 7227 about as well as one Domestic could know each other. Still, it hadn’t been at the facility, so it was more of an omission than an outright lie.

“What about your last placement? Were than any other Dom- was there anyone you could talk to there? Others I mean…” his Master asked, still trying to pry, gain information, start a conversation.

8908 swallowed. There were plenty like him in his last placement. Plenty of subjects in cages and on tables, lined up and living through their own personal hells just like him. Hardly any were ever in a chatty mood though, given the circumstances. And 8908 had been special, given special attention and treatment, being hand fed and called upon even outside of the lab. He was still put back in the cage at the end of the day like the rest, but the favoritism he’d been shown hadn’t endeared him to the others and none wanted to exchange words with him. 8908 shifted again before speaking.

“There were others but I was put away when I wasn’t needed, so I didn’t speak to them often.”

It was his Master’s turn to shift. 

“Well, you’re allowed to talk to me. If you want to. Just like, about whatever’s on your mind. I’m not going to… to put you away. I’m not like that. I’m not like the, the last person you worked for.”

8908 looked at him, observed the nervous fiddling with the latch and the way he held himself. Brenner never fidgeted, never doubted himself or his actions. Mr. Byers looked like if someone disagreed with him strongly enough or with enough venom they would cause tears to well in his eyes. He was squirming even now, under 8908’s gaze. The taller man looked away, relieving his Master of some of the weight of his stare. 

“Eat what you can and try to rest a while. I don’t know how long it will take for the meds to work their way out of your system, but I’ll be back in a while. I just have a few things to do, so feel free to try and get some more sleep, if you want it,” Mr Byers said, twitching like a horse in the stargate, waiting for the buzzer to sound and the race to start. 

“Alright,” 8908 whispered and it was all the encouragement his Master needed to turn and bolt. 

**

8908 picked at the food left for him but couldn’t stomach much. He sniffed at the cold, white stuff next to the bagel but couldn’t bring himself to try it; it was too unfamiliar, the taste and texture unknown. 8908 ate what he could and rolled onto his side beneath the provided blankets and looked at the wall instead of the ceiling this time. 

Mr. Byers hadn’t hurt him (or claimed not to have). What would be the point in lying about that? 8908 had always been taught that quick and frequent corrections were the best way to establish right off the bat who was in charge and establish respect between a Domestic and their Master. The fact that Mr. Byers hadn’t hurt him (if he was telling the truth) brought the amount of time’s he’d corrected 8908 to exactly zero. 

8908 rolled to his other side to try and ease the dull ache in his shoulder. It didn’t hurt as bad as it usually did and the pain in his neck wasn’t that throbbing, gnawing pain it had been. Maybe the pills Mr. Byers had given him had been to treat those discomforts (was that what ibuprofen was?). It was a kindness, one 8908 didn’t deserve, He didn’t deserve anything. Human decency and benevolence weren’t given to Domestics after they reached maturity and were rare enough to come by even in childhood. 

Still, Mr. Byers had been gentle and spoken softly to him ( _’Are you alright, Dear One? Did those boys hurt you again? Come here, let’s get those scraps cleaned up and get you bandaged. No need for tears,’_ ) and it had felt good to be touched with kindness. 

8908 closed his eyes and tried to hold on to that kindness and drifted into a blessedly nightmare free sleep. 

**

The knock that roused him was a quiet one but 8908 never slept heavily. He rolled onto his side to slip from beneath the comforter as his Master glanced inside. 

“You okay in there?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” 8908 confirmed, sitting upright to be examined. 

But his Master didn’t examine him. Instead, he moved closer and held out a book for 8908 to take. 

“I brought you something. Here.”

“Thank you,” 8908 whispered, turning the novel over in his hands to look at it. 

_The Andromeda Strain?_ Another well worn volume with a fraying spine and yellowed pages. It was a strange contrast to everything else in the apartment. Only the photographs and books seemed to be aged or have any wear and tear to them. 

“You’re welcome. Are you hungry?”

“No thank you, Sir,” 8908 declined despite his aching stomach where hunger and cramping battled with equal ferocity. 

“You didn’t eat the bagel,” Mr. Byers observed. “Was it too much?”

8908 looked at the food, suddenly very aware of how he’d been wasting resources without providing any services in return. He set his jaw, unsure of how to apologize or defend himself without sounding like he was ungrateful or complaining. 

“I’m sorry, it was just… too heavy. My stomach hurts.”

He could save the food, eat it later so it didn’t go to waste. It would take hours for the bread to become stale and longer still before it started to turn and grow mold. 8908 wouldn’t waste the resources spent on his upkeep, the things he was given. Mr. Byers shifted his weight from foot to foot and picked up the tray with the half eaten food to take it (was it being taken as punishment? Eat what you’re given or don’t eat at all?). 

“It’s fine. I’m going to order dinner soon, maybe you’ll have an appetite when it arrives. Do you want to be alone to read for a while? Would you rather practice typing?”

8908 wasn’t sure. He had two books in his possession now and no idea of how long they’d stay that way before they were taken from him again. But 8908 couldn’t even turn on a computer by himself, forget trying to write anything without help pulling up the programs he needed to make the keyboard spring to life and display what he typed. 8908 resisted the urge to chew his lip as he considered his options; whichever one he choose would surely be the first one he’d lose the moment he stepped out of line. 

“What would you like me to do? How can I be of service?” he asked, letting the other man make the choice for him as he rose to his feet, ready to comply either way. 

“I want you to practice typing for an hour. You can write whatever you want or copy from the book if it’s more comfortable for you. I want to get you feeling good using the keyboard,” the shorter man said. “Do you have any suits?” he finished, almost an afterthought. 

8908 blinked, surprised by both the question and the fact that he was being given both the book and the opportunity to type. 

“No.”

“That’s okay. I’ll order you some. Right now, go ahead and go to my office, I’ll get you set up in there until food arrives and we’ll have a late dinner, after your stomach settles. Take the book with you.”

8908 did, willingly, grateful to be given both. Maybe Mr. Byers had meant what he said. Maybe he didn’t want to hurt 8908, maybe he actually did want to have nothing more than companionship and assistance at his job. 8908 would do his best, try his hardest to please the soft spoken man, in any way he wanted. For the first time, it didn’t feel like a chore, like something he had to do to keep himself safe. If Mr. Byers was telling the truth, being honest about his inventions and needs, then 8908 was happy to fulfil his requests. 

He settled in to write, to learn the nuances of the keyboard and how to experiment with various keys to get the results he wanted. 8908 typed and typed, only looking up to search for cameras twice and wondered for the first time if there were even any to be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I’m still playing catch up with Mike’s chapters and still trying to get them lined up with Will’s. I’m pretty sure they will be properly lined up by the end of the next chapter though, so here’s hoping. 
> 
> I’m a little disappointed with this chapter but I had to get it done so I could move forward with the story. I hope you liked it anyway and found it a little enlightening if not surprising or exciting. 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated. Be well and take care of yourselves.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8098 tries to get any attention that he can, with varying degrees of success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Bullying, injuries, past abuse, explicit sexual contact, mildly dubious consent due to the inherent power imbalance of slavery.

8908 spent the next several days doing exactly what was asked of him (he had to make up for his past behaviors) and waiting. He waited for a command that never came and a touch that never happened. 8908 would lay on the bed he was assigned and watch the ceiling until he was sure his Master was asleep and sometimes that took hours. The other man was prone to staying up late and tossing and turning in his room and on those nights, 8908 was sure he’d be sent for to help relieve any tension Mr. Byers felt, but he never was. When he was sure the other man was out, 8908 would creep from his bed, through the dark, and to the closet he’d discovered on his second night. It was small, though not as small as he was used to, and it was dark. Too dark in all honesty before 8908 found the spare reading lamp and swiped it from it’s storage place in the hall closet and brought it into his. 8908 collected little items like that, things that wouldn’t be missed, and filled his space with them until it was cozy enough to suit his purpose, to let him sleep. 

8908 would curl up there, with his gifted books and stolen water bottles and it was _his_ (or at least it felt like it was). 8908 would drink the water whenever he liked and refill the bottles with that rich, earthy stuff from the tap as often as he pleased and it was his own, small secret. He would sleep with his ear next to the wall he shared with his Master so he could always hear if someone was moving, if he’d ever be called upon and it was peaceful under that curtain of clothes. 

Once or twice, 8908 heard movement; just a quiet shifting or panicked sound that would leave him frozen, ear pressed to the wall, waiting to see if this was finally the time he’d have to extract himself from the closet and present himself, ready and willing, on the bed (but it never was).

Slowly, 8908 began to relax, more so after the night he’d forgotten to turn off the light before slipping into the closet to sleep. He’d been tired, worn out from waking early and working late, and he’d gone to his space, his secret haven, only for a second to put his shoes away. When he bent to set them down the blanket had been too enticing, the pillow too difficult to resist, and 8908 had closed his eyes for a moment. He’d woken hours later, sure that this was how he’d be caught. The cameras might not pick up his movements under cover of darkness but he’d been an _idiot_ and left on all the lights. 

He’d been terrified as he waited for his Master to wake and check the footage. He sat still as a stone on his assigned bed, prepared to take whatever punishment awaited, prepared to lose his sanctuary. But Mr. Byers hadn’t emerged from his room in a fury. If anything, he seemed a little bashful when he knocked on the door and handed 8908 a small, handheld device and headset, explaining they were for 8908, since he liked to read so much. 

It had taken 8908 longer than he cared to admit to remember how to use one of these and even longer for him to build enough courage to ask Mr. Byers for help downloading something other than college texts the younger man had saved to the device. Not that 8908 was ungrateful, but texts on C++ (whatever that was) were too advanced for him (so stupid) and went right over his head, so 8908 couldn’t enjoy them. 

So when 8908 finally got the thing to work and had the time to do so, he listened while he practiced typing. Pages and pages of nonsense, just random facts or copied texts, but it did help him develop his skills and after a few tries, 8908 was able to master punctuation and capitalization. 8908 was listening to an epic story, something about a great war and a woman so beautiful her face launched one thousand ships. He was typing slowly, concentrating more on the passage than his actual writing (‘No man or woman born, coward or brave, can shun his destiny’) when he noticed his Master watching from the doorway. 8908 quickly paused the book (he should have just pulled the ear buds out immediately, a stupid mistake) and looked up. 

“Do you mind coming to your room? The clothes arrived, I just want to make sure they fit and don’t need any alterations or anything,” the soft eyed man asked as he shifted from one foot to the other. 

“Of course.”

8908 rose and followed Mr. Byers to his assigned room where a spread of more clothes than he’d ever had greeted him. They were all neatly laid out on the bed, spread evenly and fanned out in a pattern, starting from the most brightly colored to the dullest. 8908 quirked an eyebrow and glanced at his Master, unsure.

“These are for you. Just uh, can you try them on? Let me know if you like them or if you want anything returned or anything? Different colors?”

_Different colors? You have the whole array of the color spectrum laid out here. Are they even any missing? Some secret color I’ve never seen?_

“Yeah, I can do that,” agreed as he started to strip and Mr. Byers turned away from him, still disgusted by the sight of 8908’s form. 

8908 felt that pang again, the hit to his ego. It was the same one he’d felt the first time he touched the scar on the back of his head and again when his Master refused to look at him as he writhed and twisted on the bed. He still didn’t know what it was about him that repulsed his Master so, and 8908 looked down at himself as he stripped, tried to pinpoint it, exactly what it was that was so wrong. 

8908’s legs were long, maybe a little lean but still strong from his exercises. His ribs poked out from beneath his skin a little as he recovered from his malnutrition but he kept his shirt on so they didn’t show. His arms were sinewy and the veins showed a little but it wasn’t like that was the biggest flaw there, his arms were already ruined by the attempt he made the first night. 8908 turned them inward, towards his thighs, cleared his throat, and muttered, ‘I’m ready’. 

Mr. Byers kept his eyes averted as he handed 8908 article after article to try on and after a time, he even touched 8908 to help him slip in or out of the vests and blazers. 8908 glanced up, tried to decide if the touches meant anything or if Mr. Byers was just trying to assess whether or not the shirts would button over the collar. Still, the touch was gentle and 8908 leaned into it unconsciously, drawn to that basic human kindness of a touch that didn’t hurt or cause fear. Mr. Byers drew away quickly when he did. 

“Okay, these all look great. I’m glad. I was kinda worried they wouldn’t be ready by Monday but you’re all set. Let’s get them hung up so they don’t wrinkle,” Mr. Byers said, voice cheerful as he turned to face the closest. 

When Mr. Byers hurried away, towards 8908’s hidden paradise, the tall man tried to say something, to stop him, but couldn’t bring himself to speak out of turn, to make the situation worse than it already would be in just a moment’s time. 8908 watched, mouth parted as the petite man pulled open the closet to hang up the clothes and peered down. After a moment of just looking at 8908’s sacred place, his hidden refuge, Mr. Byers turned to look at 8908 and laughed. 

“Have you been sleeping here?”

8908 didn’t know what to say. What _could_ he say to defend the stolen items and hidden space? There wasn’t a single lie that he could think of to justify himself. 

“I- It’s… It’s comfortable,” 8908 managed to say as he shifted from foot to foot and he watched the younger man turn back to look at the closet, at all the things 8908 had snuck in there without permission, all the things he’d pilfered and stolen. 

“Comfortable? On the floor?”

“Yes,” 8908 breathed, chest tight. “I- I don’t need a lot of space,” _I don’t want a lot of space. There’s nothing to touch for comfort or offer protection._

His Master looked back at 8908, eyes focused on him for longer than was comfortable. For how much 8908 had _wanted_ Mr. Byers to look at him before, 8908 was crumbling under the weight of it now. 8908 lowered his head, drew his shoulders in around himself and tried to hide before correcting himself and looking back up as his Master spoke. 

“You… You have the whole room,” the smaller man said, shifting a little as he spoke. “You don’t have to sleep in the closet. What the hell is this?” he finished with a laugh totally devoid of all mirth and warmth. 

8908 ducked his head again, tried to use his hair as a makeshift shelter to hide behind. Why had he taken all of those things? It must be his nature, some defect in his character that made 8908 unfit to be anything other than what he was: a slave to greater men. 

“Are you angry with me?” he asked, too afraid to look up, to meet that heavy gaze, but did it anyway. 

“What?” Mr. Byers asked confused by the question or the audacity 8908 had in asking it in the first place ( _obviously_ he was angry). “No, I’m just confused. Is the bed not comfortable? Is there something in the mattress you’re allergic to? I can have it replaced.”

8908 looked down at the bed in question, still covered in clothes, and shuddered. 

_I don’t want to sleep there. It’s too exposed. In the cage though, no one can touch me. They have to drag me out before they can lay hands on me._

“No, the bed is fine. It, it just feels secure in there, in the closet,” he struggled to explain. “Small, enclosed, safe,” _as close as I could find to a substitute in this room._

That seemed to upset the other man. 8908 watched his Master’s face change from pinched concern to something else as he spoke. 

“What do you mean? You don’t feel safe here?”

“No Sir. I mean yes, I do,” 8908 tried to backtrack. “I feel safe. It’s just that my last Master, he liked me to sleep in a crate.” he hurried to say, to explain that he’d meant no offense. “I just got used to the enclosed space and now it just... “ 8908 searched for the words. “It feels better. To have walls on all sides.”

“A crate? Like an apple crate?”

“No,” 8908 assured the now frozen man who had a smile clinging to his face. “Like for a great dane or pyrenees.”

Truth be told, they were a little smaller. 8908 couldn’t stretch out in them, but he could curl up comfortably enough. It was partially his fault 8908 knew, none of the shorter subjects had any issues stretching out and wiggling their toes. 8908 was just too tall. He watched Mr. Byers turn back to the closet and extract a few hangers, apparently satisfied with that answer.

“Well, I mean, as long as you’re comfortable. But um, just so you’re aware, you really do have this whole room. It’s yours. I’m not gonna change my mind and suddenly flip out and make you sleep in a dog crate or anything.” 

Another laugh, less harsh than it had been.

“So uh, you can spread out and relax. Don’t feel like you have to sleep in a closet because I’m not like that… that’s not who I am.”

8908 watched the shorter man, still unsure. Was he really not going to address all the stolen items? Didn’t he care that there was a thief in his home? It was strange, but all Mr. Byers seemed concerned about were 8908’s sleeping arrangements. Mr. Byers hadn’t even raised his voice or snatched the things back, banishing 8908 to sleep on the floor near his bed to keep a better eye on 8908 and his sticky fingers. He hadn’t raised a hand or pulled the device from where it must be hidden in his pocket (8908 had seen him stroking, touching his pocket earlier). He hadn’t done anything. He’d just wanted to talk, to clarify what it was that he was seeing when he opened the door. 

“No. It’s not,” 8908 said, beginning to believe it was true. 

**

Mr. Byers had always been kind and light handed, but 8908 was downright stunned that no punishment ever came for his theft and refusal to use the provided accommodations. 8908 had expected that at the very least, some if not all of his privilege would be suspended. He fully expected to wake and find the balcony locked or the charger for the Ipod gone, the bookshelf cleared or the water in his assigned room turned off, but no, nothing had changed. Mr. Byers hadn’t taken back what he’d already given and in fact, he’d given even _more_. 

8908 hadn’t expected it, the question, nor had he expected his own quiet admission when asked but… Mr. Byers had given him a name. Well, not _given _exactly. It was more akin to 8908 finding a filthy, flea riddled puppy and asking if he could keep it and Mr. Byers agreeing even though the thing stank and might have disease. The petite man had even called 8908 by it and hadn’t reverted back after the first time it was spoken.__

__8908 rolled the word over and over on his tongue, trying it out, testing it._ _

____

____

_Mike. Miiiiike. Mike Mike Mike. Archangel Michael, Michelangelo, Mike Myers, Michael Jordan._

__

8908 rolled over in his blankets and smiled to himself, keeping the covers pulled up to his nose even though he was fairly sure by now that no one was watching from behind a screen somewhere. 

__

He’d always thought the others had been stupid to have their secret names and whispered prayers, but now he understood. This was his and his alone. No one had picked it for him, no one had arbitrarily decided it was what he was to be called now. 8908 held on to it, kept it close and safe even if he didn’t think of himself by this name yet. 

__

He shifted and pressed his ear to the wall, listening for the tell tale squeak of the mattress as Mr. Byers tossed and turned, fighting for every ounce of sleep he could have before starting his day, but didn’t hear it. Was he already awake? Had 8908 slept through it? He pushed the closet door open as quietly as he could, just in case Mr. Byers slept on and was so deeply asleep he wasn’t even thrashing about yet. 

__

8908 crawled out and rose to his feet to head to the shower and prepare himself for the day. He stepped in, still basking in the fact that he could control the temperature, that he could make it as hot or as cold as he pleased. No one made him shave or put gel in his hair or apply those sticky to stiff blackhead removal strips that tore at and dried out his skin. No one applied bleaching cream to his freckles to hide or diminish them and no one doused him in powder and concealer when the creams didn’t work. 

__

8908 dried himself off and dressed, selecting the pale blue and purple shirt Mr. Byers had seemed to like the most the day the clothes arrived. He combed his hair back, as under control as he could make it, and looked himself over. It looked good. _He_ looked good and it felt good to be dressed up, professional, even if it was an illusion. The only time he’d ever been allowed out of the scrubs at the lab or out of the tunics and elastic waisted slacks at the facility had been when he was on display and 8908 was always presented in the most revealing things, to show off the goods. Mr. Byers had picked these things for him, selected them himself. Surely he’d like it, the ensemble that 8908 had picked.

__

The buttons of the shirt covered both the collar and the bandages and for that 8908 was grateful. Nothing was breaking the illusion he’d crafted. He paused when it came time to pick a blazer, knowing full well he had no sense of color or style (one of the reasons he’d never been selected for artistic training he was sure). 8908 grabbed two and began walking to the hall. 

__

8908 paused when he saw the door to his Master’s room already ajar and his curiosity made him peer in, just to see. The bed was unmade but empty, the lights off. 8908 padded further down the hall and paused as he saw the younger man nursing a drink at the counter and 8908 cleared his throat to draw attention to himself. The sound made the other man jump in surprise. 

__

“Si- Will,” he corrected himself, reminding himself that Mr. Byers wanted to be addressed by his first name. “I didn’t know what blazer you wanted me to wear, so I have both.”

__

Mr. Byers glanced over at him and hesitated. 

__

“The uh, the dark blue one,” he said before returning his attention to his drink. 

__

“Does it need a tie?” 8908 asked, trying again to draw attention to himself, to draw those soft brown eyes back to him, to how hard he’d worked to present himself in the best possible way. 

__

His Master didn’t look back up and 8908 felt a pang of hurt at that.

__

“The grey one, to match the pants. If it’s comfortable.”

__

“Okay,” 8908 said as he turned to go, still aching from the lack of acknowledgement.

__

Maybe the stylists at the facility had actually known what they were doing after all. Hadn’t Mr. Byers seemed more willing to look at him when he was dolled up and presented that way? With his curls under control and his freckles blanched and the collar in view? But Mr. Byers hadn’t chosen him in that state, he hadn’t cared that 8908 was dirty and disheveled. 8908 opened the drawer and extracted the suggested tie. He looped it around his neck and paused, a thought taking form. 

__

If he couldn’t tie it, would Mr. Byers offer to help or just dismiss the thing as unnecessary? 8908 pulled it from his neck and simply looked at the thing. It was a dishonesty (a lie) and it was a punishable offense but… Mr. Byers hadn’t punished him yet and 8908 had certainly committed more grievous transgressions already. 

__

He held the tie in hand and returned to the kitchen to offer it to the younger man. 8908 concentrated on manipulating his features to look appropriately self conscious as he held the tie out. 

__

“I’m sorry I don’t… I don’t remember how to do this. It’s…” What was a believable lie? “It’s been a few years.”

__

Mr. Byers looked at him and blinked and 8908 worried that he’d be rebuffed yet again. After a moment, the smaller man looked down at the tie. 

__

“Would you like me to show you? Or just do it for you?”

__

8908 hid his deceitful grin of victory and ducked his head, still feigning embarrassment. 

__

“If you don’t mind.”

__

When the shorter man took the tie from him and laced it around 8908’s neck, the touch was as gentle as he’d remembered it being. 8908 relaxed his shoulders and let the jacket slip so the younger man could have more access to work. 8908 turned his head to the side so Mr. Byers wouldn’t have to make eye contact with him and waited, just enjoying the smell of the other man’s cologne and soap. When he felt Mr. Byers knuckles brush his jaw, 8908 thought about turning his head, leaning into the touch, but it was gone as quickly as it had come and the shorter man took a step away. 

__

“You can adjust it from there. I don’t want it to be too tight.”

__

8908 reached up to touch the knot where Mr Byers hands had been moments before. 

__

“Okay. Does this look alright?”

__

“Yeah, looks great,” the shorter man said, finally looking at 8908 full on. 

__

8908 wanted to preen with how pleased he felt at the compliment. He wanted to soak in it, bath in it. It was the longest Mr. Byers had ever spent looking at him with anything other than pity or disgust and it was… good. 8908 would wear a suit every day if it meant he could have that approval, that gentle touch again. He ducked his head, a little embarrassed (really this time, not just faking it) and prepared himself for what the day held. 

__

**

__

The first day was a nerve racking and intense experience. 8908 tried his best to be non intrusive and to stay out of the way but it was hard when everything in his being screamed at him to be as close to his Master as he could (he was comforting, familiar) at all times. It was a struggle to not stick to the shorter man like cling wrap, especially once all the PAMs settled in to do their work and it was only made worse when the team leader and project heads were introduced. 

__

8908 watched from behind a shroud of his hair as Mr. Byers introduced himself and then 8908 with a simple ‘This is Mike’ and brief hand motion in his direction. 8908 kept his head down, his eyes lowered as he murmured a greeting, praying desperately that the team leader didn’t recognize him. 

__

It had been what, twelve, thirteen years? Maybe 8908 looked different enough that he would pass unnoticed. He was taller now, his hair was longer, and he had grown into his features ( _Frog Face_ ) so he knew it was a possibility that he wouldn’t be recognized as long as he kept his head down and kept his distance. Mr. Dante barely looked at him though and it was actually a relief to be a Domestic, to have eyes barely even register him as anything more than a potted plant or cabinet. 

__

The last time 8908 had seen Mr. Dante, 8908 had had a different name. The last time he saw Mr. Dante, 8908 had been on the ground, cradling his dislocated arm and crying tears of humiliation and rage after getting his ass kicked by neighborhood kids headed by the man who was now his Master’s boss. 8908 had been alone, kicking his soccer ball mindlessly around in the field when he’d been jumped. He didn’t understand it at the time, what it was that made him so different and a target for bullying and assault. He’d kicked and fought back but the other boys outnumbered him and in the end, he’d gotten the living hell beat out of him and he had to stumble home bruised and nursing his damaged arm. He understood it now. 

__

His Mother had _clearly_ been too old to have a child in her early sixties and 8908 had showed up in her home as a fully formed twelve year old. Of course that stood out to other kids. Of course they knew what he was. 

__

8908 had snuck in and hidden in his room, dirty and bleeding, concealing the injury from his Mother for days so she wouldn’t worry, so she wouldn’t go door to door again demanding apologies from the other boy’s mothers. His plan had been fine, or it would have been, until _they_ , Mother’s _actual_ children had shown up and found him out. 

__

They never spoke to him, only treated him like an unwanted nuisance and it had hurt his feelings at first. Mother wanted him, why did they dislike him so much if he made Mother happy? He eventually stopped caring. They’d never liked 8908 anyway and they never would. They had always resented the financial drain he was and didn’t understand why Mother always showered him with love and affection.

__

8908 wanted to tell them it was because they never called her or came to visit. Mother had requested him because she wanted a child to raise, she wanted company, and she’d been doing that just fine for three years before the incident with his arm. It was unfortunate that _this_ was the one time they bothered to visit, after the attack and while 8908 was still nursing his injured and useless appendage. 

__

It had been all the excuse they needed to finally get rid of him. Mother hadn’t gotten him medical treatment for the wound and even though he’d been the one who hid it from her, it was a breach of contract. He’d needed a surgery to fix it and it still hadn’t ever healed correctly. Mother’s children argued that it was obvious that he was too much of a handful and she was incapable of caring for him and that the facility needed to take him back. It was the last time 8908 had had a family and 8908 hated James Dante for that, for taking Mother away. 

__

Now, 8908 stayed as hidden as he could, hoped that what was a traumatic memory for _him_ was nothing more than a fleeting one for the other man. 8908 rolled his shoulder in agitation, the ache suddenly flaring up. 

__

The day couldn’t end soon enough. 

__

The library was a welcome respite for him after hiding from that particular ghost from his past all day. It was amazing, every wall was covered in books and they weren’t just instruction manuals (though it had those as well) but novels and cookbooks and sheet music and even illustrated books that told visual stories. 8908 tried to hurry, to pick what he wanted but Mr. Byers assured him it was fine, he could take as much time as he wanted. 8908 ended up leaving with almost a dozen, all cradled in his arms and now lined up neatly against the wall of his nest in the closet and 8908 felt… something. Something unfamiliar but light and peaceful and quiet. 

__

**

__

Mike sat curled on the sofa cradling a pillow to his chest, eyes half closed as he listened to a Hans Christian Andersen story when movement across the room caught his attention. Mike looked up to see Will shoving his laptop aside in frustration and Mike pulled out his ear buds and craned his neck to watch. 

__

“Are you alright?”

__

“I’m fine,” Will said with a sigh as he rubbed the space between his eyebrows in annoyance. “I’m going to have an early night though. There’s uh, there’s a Chinese takeout menu on the fridge and um, here, this should cover whatever you want,” the younger man said as he extracted an ample amount of money from his wallet to set aside for Mike. “I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

__

Mike blinked, a little startled and sat up. 

__

“Of course.”

__

He watched Will rise to his feet and give a little wave before disappearing into the hall and out of view. Will never called it quits this early while he was working and rarely even on his nights off. Mike stood and walked towards the desk, past the money (there was plenty to eat in the kitchen), and looked at the computer. The screen was filled with line after line of absolute gibberish. Mike wished he knew what it meant, what it was that had vexed Mr. Byers so badly, but it was all meaningless to him. 

__

He turned and scooped up the wine glass and gave it a sniff. It smelled sickly sweet and cloying and Mike walked with it to the kitchen to wash it in the sink before setting it on the drying rack. He turned and grabbed a package of beef jerky and returned to his room, curling up in the closet to eat and listen to the sounds of Will’s shower running in the next room. 

__

It was strange to feel this helpless when his entire _purpose_ was to provide assistance. Mike hated this in all honesty. It was a stark contrast to feel so valued and cared for through acts of kindness and yet so rejected and avoided wherever it came to physical contact. At first, Mike had just thought Will must have just found him revolting and assumed that’s why any sexual offer he made was rejected. Still though, time passed and Mr. Byers never left the apartment to go on dates and he never brought home escorts to fulfill any needs he might have, and that confused Mike more than his own rejection did. 

__

Will was a young, seemingly healthy man but he was the least sexually active one Mike had ever known. Was he asexual or sex repulsed? Mike didn’t know. A few times he’d (unintentionally) heard what sounded like acts of self pleasure and he thought Will had reacted to him once or twice at least but he couldn’t be sure. 

__

Mike chewed his food and stretched his legs. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled his belt off, rolling it neatly and set it aside. He shrugged the button down off, stood to grab a hanger for the shirt, and paused. 

__

There was a sound coming from the room Mike shared a wall with and for a moment, Mike wondered if Will was doing what… well… everyone did when they were alone. He briefly considered pressing his ear to the wall, curious, but decided against it. Will wouldn’t know, but Mike would and he didn’t want to intentionally spy on the other man. He hung up his shirt and sat back down, back to the wall as he chewed his jerky and tried to ignore the sounds from the next room. 

__

It was hard to though. They shared the wall after all and Will was being _loud_ , louder than he typically was. Mike chuckled to himself and picked up a book, ready to settle in until the sounds increased again and this time they didn’t sound pleasurable at all. He froze, half hunched over, and tried to determine if he'd been mistaken, if he’d misinterpreted what it was he was hearing. Because to Mike, it sounded an awful lot like crying. 

__

Another wracked sob broke the quiet and there was no mistaking that one. 

__

Mike swallowed his food and set the bag down before turning his head to face the wall. Another sob and god, it sounded pained. Mike pressed his palm against the wall, not sure what to do. Should he knock, let Will know he was there for reassurance? No, that felt too much like he had been listening in on purpose. Mike waited a moment before rising back to his feet and pushing the closet door open. He made his way down the hall and stopped at the closed door before knocking lightly but he wasn’t answered. 

__

Mike stood there waiting, uncomfortable with just listening to Will’s piteous cries and finally just pushed the door open to peek in. 

__

The smaller man was curled on his side, back to Mike, nude from the waist up, and sobbing so fast and so hard that Mike was amazed he could breathe at all. His whole body was shaking from the force of it and Mike had to do _something_. He went to the bed and sat on the edge. He reached out without thinking and laid his hand on the younger man’s bare shoulder, trying to soothe him. Will rolled, startled by the touch and choked down another hiccuping cry and Mike let his hand fall away. Mike watched the shorter man hurry to clear his red and blotchy face of tears and blink up at him. Mike didn’t know what to do, so he said the only thing he could think of, the only thing he could offer. 

__

“Sir, do you require my services?”

__

“Mike. No, I’m fine,” the petite man said, still palming his eyes to clear them of tears. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

__

“No,” Mike assured him. “I wasn’t asleep. I heard you and… you sounded upset,” Mike said, omitting the part about how painful and heart wrenching the sound was. “Are you alright?”

__

“I’m fine. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so loud.”

__

“Can I help you?”

__

“No, I’m just stressed about work,” the other man said, apologizing again. “I’ll be fine.”

__

Mike glanced down, looked the other man over. Even with as much pain he was obviously in he was still apologizing. Mike touched him again, offering the human contact that had comforted him when Will had given it.

__

“Would you like me to help you relieve some stress?” he asked, not sure he’d been of any help but trying to be anyway. 

__

Will pulled away from him and Mike felt a knot start to form in his stomach. 

__

“No thank you. I told you, I’m fine. You don’t need to um, do _that_.”

__

Oh. Will thought Mike just wanted to have sex with him, that he was just offering only what came naturally for him. He didn’t understand that Mike would, yes, willingly have sex with Will (that sounded kinda great actually), but what he’d been offering had been so much more complicated (and more simple) than that. Mike ran his tongue across his teeth and tried again. 

__

“We don’t have to have sex, I know you didn’t chose me for that. You already told me,” _you made it abundantly clear that you don’t want me._ “I could just hold you for a while, until you felt better.”

__

Will shook his head, rejecting Mike again. Not just the sex, but _Mike_.

__

“I- I don’t think so.”

__

Mike took a breath, pushed aside his pride, and tried one last time. 

__

“Everyone needs human contact,” _**I** do._ “I could give you that,” he whispered as he leaned forward to brush a strand of wet hair away from Will’s face, testing to see if the other man would withdraw again (and wanting to see his eyes). “That skin to skin contact.”

__

Will didn’t pull away. 

__

“If that’s something you want,” Mike finished. 

__

_What **do** you want?_

__

He slipped his fingers down from Will’s face to his arm, an example of what he was offering. 

__

“I can take care of you.”

__

_Let me take care of you, the way you took care of me. Let me tend to your wounds the way you did mine. Please._

__

Mike watched Will close his eyes, watched him let Mike trace his fingers over that perfect, blemish free skin. He watched the place on Will’s neck, the ones with the moles, bob and move as the other man exhaled. 

__

“Okay. Just for a while though.”

__

Mike felt the knot in his stomach tighten. He wasn’t being rejected, he was going to be allowed to do this, this thing he wanted. Mike slipped under the covers and used his hands to pull his small Master towards him and breathed him in. He smelled like soap and salt and he was still holding his pillow to his chest, refusing to relax into the touch. Mike pulled the other man close with one arm and used his other to rest his neck against to keep himself propped up. Mike curled around Will and kept up his gentle strokes with the pads of his fingers, trying to relax the other man. He curled his ankles around Will and felt their feet brush together as Will tried to squirm away again. Mike tightened his hold, refusing to give up that contact he’d been craving for weeks. 

__

“Relax. I’m here to help. And lose the pillow,” _I want to be able to feel you._ “You don’t need to hide from me,” _I’d never judge you._

__

“Sorry,” the smaller man whispered. “I don’t know how relaxed I can be.”

__

It was okay, Mike could help him. The tall man tugged at the pillow and Will released it. Mike tossed it aside and smiled to himself internally as he closed his eyes and curled closer. 

__

“Just… close your eyes. You can pretend I’m someone you like,” _It’s not me, it’s okay. I get it._ “I’m not going to do anything you don’t want,” he promised. 

__

Mike could accept this, this mere taste of what it was he wanted. It was like smelling the sea from a window but never going to the beach to feel the sand between your toes. Will was here and Mike was allowed to touch him, even if the attraction was one sided. He was greedy and selfish and he’d take what he could get. 

__

When Will wriggled again and tried to pull away, Mike held tighter still and pulled the programmer closer, his selfish, gluttonous need overriding his conditioning to be passive, to let his Master do as he pleased (even if it was to pull away). Mike held Will firm and pressed his nose into the other man’s clean, damp hair and stayed there. When he pulled Will tight, Mike felt a familiar, foreign pressure against his stomach and he slowed his touches on Will’s shoulder. 

__

Oh. _Oh._ Okay. 

__

Mr. Byers imagination must be taking over. Mike scooted himself closer until that pressure was more firmly pressed against him, pressed into his sunken belly. 

__

“Sorry,” Will whispered through gritted teeth, the sound a hiss. 

__

“Don’t be, it’s normal. It doesn’t bother me,” Mike reassured the smaller man as he started his touches again, trying to distract Will from who it was he was pressed up against. When Mike dared to, he moved his free hand to settle between their bodies, just above Will’s pant line, near but not touching the trail of hair there. Mike bumped his chin against the programmer's forehead and managed to find the courage to ask.

__

“Do you want me to touch you?”

__

Will hesitated and didn’t speak for a long time, making Mike worry that this was about to end, that he’d wrecked it and that he’d be sent away and-

__

“-Only if you want to.”

__

“Sir?” he asked, unsure if he’d heard correctly. 

__

Was Mike being asked what _he_ wanted?

__

“It’s Will,” the younger man reminded him, voice small. 

__

“Will,” Mike corrected himself, still trying to process what it was he was being asked. “Do you want me to help you? To… relieve you?”

__

Mike felt the smaller man shift but not pull away, like he was considering how to respond. When he finally did, it was in hushed tones, like it was a secret. 

__

“I’d be lying if I said ‘no, I don’t want to be touched’, but I’m serious. I only want you to do things you want to do so I don’t want you to feel pressured or forced into anything. I’m a grown up, I can um… relieve myself.”

__

Mike… wasn’t sure what to say. No one asked him what _he_ wanted (no one other than Mr. Byers). Will was giving him an out, the ability to get up and leave his Master frustrated and wanting. He’d never had that option before and if there was ever a time Mike would have taken it, it wasn’t _now_ for god’s sake. 

__

Will wanted this, wanted someone, _anyone_ to touch him and Mike didn’t care that he was a surrogate for whoever it was his Master actually wanted. Mike dropped his hand and palmed Will through his pants, causing the other man to shudder and release a toe curling, half strangled sound. 

__

Yeah, that was a lot more like what Mike had envisioned than the sobbing he’d heard from behind the wall had been. Will lowered his head and tilted his face away so Mike’s chin was resting on the crown of Will’s hair as he continued to massage the other man. Mike kept his other hand busy, tracing circles into Will’s back and he lowered his head so he could press his chin against Will’s skin again. 

__

“Does that feel good?” he asked, concentrating on Will who was squirming and twitching against him rather than focusing on his own throbbing cock. 

__

He saw that thing every day, touched it often enough that it could wait, it didn’t need to interrupt what might be a once in a lifetime opportunity. Mike almost released his own sound but repressed it. His voracious hunger was back and Mike wanted Will so worked up that he was red faced and panting, begging, _wanting Mike_ to touch him. How could he do that? He didn’t think Will would respond well to traditional dirty talk, but he’d let Mike crawl into bed with him because he’d been stressed and Mike had offered to help. 

__

“You work so hard. Need someone to take care of you?” _Need **me** to take care of you?_

__

Mike felt the programmer shudder and nod before pressing into Mike, into his neck, and leaned against him for the first time instead of pulling away. It was more than Mike had dared to hope for. 

__

So that was it then, huh? Will was young and alone and anxious and he wanted someone to take care of him. Mike moved his hand and slipped it beneath the elastic of Will’s pants to take him bare in hand for the first (maybe the only) time. 

__

Will felt good in Mike’s palm, heavy and thick and silky smooth. Mike wanted to savor this, the feeling of Will twitching against him. When the smaller man moved, tried to touch Mike as well, Mike caught him by the wrist and halted the movement. 

__

“No. This is about you,” Mike whispered, not willing to give this up, to be distracted by his own cock. 

__

“You… you don’t want me to?”

__

No, not really. If he was only going to get one shot at this he had to make it count. Mike tightened his hold on the other man and pushed his foreskin back, making the short man release another strangled sound. 

__

“I want to take care of _you_. You said you’d let me, so just let me.”

__

The sounds Will made, the way he thrust into the touch was like a taste of nirvana. When Will pressed into Mike further, the tall man felt like he might pass out. This almost felt real, like what he and 7227 had had, one stolen, hidden touch at a time. Mike wanted this and it felt almost like Will wanted this too, wanted _him_. When Will tried to cover his mouth, to muffle that blessed sound, Mike stopped him. 

__

“Don’t do that. You’re so responsive. I wondered what you’d sound like,” Mike admitted, too caught up in the moment to be embarrassed. 

__

Mike increased his speed, excited by the reactions he was getting. He ran a thumb over Will’s glans, satisfied with the wetness that had collected there and almost growled. When Will tried to repress another sound, Mike increased his speed again, jerking the programmer with intent and fervor, trying to draw out that hidden noise again. 

__

“Relax, just enjoy this. Wanna help you feel good,” Mike panted, barely more than a whisper, too close to a whine for his pride but in this moment he didn’t care. 

__

Mike wanted to thrust against Will, press himself between Will’s slowly parting legs and bury himself against the smaller man and never let go, never come up for air. Mike liked sex well enough (fortunate, considering his designation) but it wasn’t just sex he wanted from Will. He wanted _all of it_. Every touch, every caress, every sigh and moan and everything in between. Mike wanted to give all of that to Will, the other man didn’t have to give anything back. He’d given so much already. When Will’s hands closed around Mike’s shirt and he pulled down on the fabric, Mike almost moaned and pressed his lips to Will’s forehead in thanks but held himself back. 

__

Will was letting him have this and that greedy need wanted more. Mike had _so much_ more to offer this soft, kind, gentle man if only he’d allow Mike to give it. 

__

“I can give you anything you want,” he blurted out. “Can make you feel good in any way that pleases you,” he begged. 

__

_Please, just don’t let this be the only time._

__

Don’t let this be the only time Mike could have this safety, this gentle touch. It wasn’t enough, not by half. Mike had told a lie again, to himself this time. It wasn’t enough to satisfy him. He didn’t want Will to pull away or withdraw, didn’t want to be left begging for scraps, having to resort to lies and any excuse he could use to have Will touch him. Mike knew, he _knew_ Will didn’t want him like this but if he’d just let Mike be close to him and-

__

A hand pressed against his chest, bringing him back to reality. 

__

“Hey, wait,” the other man gasped. “I’m gonna cum.”

__

“I know, that’s the point,” Mike replied, eager to please. “Let me take care of you,” he begged again. “Just relax.”

__

When Will tightened his hold on Mike’s shirt and clung to him, Mike pressed into it, desperate for the contact. When Will released hot thread after thread in Mike’s hand, the taller man savored it, used it to coat Will and stroke him through to the end. Will held on to Mike the entire time and after several long minutes of shaking and uneven breaths, Will finally spoke. 

__

“Shit, I’m sorry,” his Master said, voice cracking. 

__

What?

__

“Why?”

__

““I… I’m sorry I did that. So sorry.”

__

Mike was confused. What was there to be sorry about? Will hadn’t rejected him, hadn’t pushed him away when he was done, or told 8908 he was disgusting (not yet at least). If he was concerned about the lack of condom and the mess it made, Mike could take care of that. 

__

“If you’re worried about the clothes, don’t be. We’re going to the dry cleaner’s tomorrow,” Mike assured him, trying to control his own nervous reaction to his Master’s statement. “Lie back and stay still. I have to get something,” Mike said as he rolled away, quick to hide his erection and still burning desire. 

__

Mr. Byers had Mike here to make this okay, to make this comfortable and good again. Mike hurried to Will’s connected bathroom and warmed a towel under the water of the sink and stripped off his cum stained slacks, letting them fall next to Will’s own discarded clothing and quickly returned to his Master. 

__

Will had his arms thrown over his face, obscuring his features and Mike settled in to clean him, to clean the mess he’d spread all over the smaller man in his enthusiasm. Will tried to roll away but Mike pressed his palm flat against the other man’s stomach, settling him. 

__

“Hold still. You told me you were going to let me take care of you,” he said, voice as soft and low, as soothing as he could make it. 

__

That seemed to work and Mike set to work carefully cleaning the mess from the other man’s half hard member and stomach before helping him pull up his spaceship themed pajamas. Mike set the towel aside, satisfied that he’d done a good enough job and looked down at the other man. 

__

“Roll onto your side?” he asked as evenly as he could, hoping Will would agree, would let Mike hold him again. 

__

“What?”

__

“I said I was going to hold you until you felt better,” Mike tried to explain, nearly losing his courage but he managed to keep composed long enough to keep the shake out of his voice. “Roll over.”

__

Amazingly, Will did just that. He rolled onto his side, presenting his pretty freckled back for Mike to curl around and hold. 

__

“Go to sleep. I’ll stay until you do,” Mike whispered. 

__

_I won’t overstay my welcome, I promise. I know you don’t want to share your space with me, just let me stay a little while, then I’ll go._

__

Will nodded in agreement, conceding to let Mike stay for a while, or at least until the smaller man was asleep. It didn’t take long and when Mike felt the tension beneath his hold relax and the breaths even out into a gentle rhythm, Mike detached himself to leave, the ache in his chest born anew.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am 100% aware that his chapter is a fucking dozy. I am so sorry that it took so long to get uploaded and that it's so long in general, but I had to get Mike's story lined up with Will's chapters and there was just no way to cut anything from it. 
> 
> Comments and Kudos are always appreciated. I always love hearing for all of you, about what you thought about the chapter, and where the story is going. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you are all doing well and taking care of yourselves.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike and Will each ask each other for something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: brief sexual content, Dom/sub tones and discussions, depression, self deprecation, past non con.

Mike made a pitstop in his Master’s attached bathroom to retrieve his discarded slacks and scooped Will’s forgotten clothes up as well. For a moment, Mike considered burying his nose in the younger man’s clothes, or even in keeping a piece for himself. Will wouldn’t really miss an undershirt, would he? But that would be stealing, _again_ , and mildly creepy besides that. How was he supposed to explain himself if Will ever found out? ‘I just wanted to be able to _smell_ you whenever I wanted? To feel like you were close to me, even though we live in the same house and I can see you whenever I want’? 

Yeah, that didn’t sound obsessive or dangerous at all. 

So Mike tucked the clothes close to his chest, near enough to his face to be able to smell them without actually burying his nose in them, and moved to leave the room as quietly as he could. He cast a glance at the man asleep on the bed and paused, daring to take a moment for himself to watch while the other man slept for longer than he was sure was appropriate. Will looked so much more relaxed when he was asleep than when he was awake. All of that tension the programmer carried in his shoulders was gone, his brow wasn’t pinched in concentration, and his lips weren’t pursed or drawn in an anxious smile. Will’s mouth was parted slightly as he breathed, hands curled loosely beneath his chin like he was trying to protect himself from unseen things and he looked… peaceful. 

Mike pulled his eyes away and left the room, being sure to shut the door slowly behind himself so he didn’t disturb the sleeping man. 

When he returned to his room, the tall man dropped the clothes he carried into his laundry basket (he didn’t keep any for himself) before he stripped and stepped into the shower. Mike could barely tolerate waiting for the water to get warm before he had himself in hand and was moving. He used one arm to balance himself and just lean against the cool tile while he dipped his head and closed his eyes, trying to relive what had just happened. 

Mike had the image in mind, the one he wanted to keep, and he squeezed himself gently while he worked. The way Will had panted, the way his skin had smelled, and the way it had felt under Mike’s fingers when he touched the other man were all something he wanted to cement to memory, to hold onto and not lose the way he lost so many other things. Will had been soft, timid, with light touches and restrained reactions. He had told Mike he only wanted the Domestic to do what _he_ wanted to do. Remembering that, how softly his Master had spoken, how he’d made it clear that he wouldn’t force 8908 to do anything and that he in fact _cared_ about what 8908 wanted almost made Mike go right there. 

The slim man squeezed his base to hold off the quickly approaching orgasm and redirected his attention to something else, something besides being in someone’s bed who had given him the option to leave without it being a ruse or trick to have an excuse to punish him later. That thought was too intense right now, still too raw and new. He thought instead of what Will had felt like in his hand and what he might feel like sheathed in Mike’s body instead. Mike didn’t know if the shorter man would be as timid or gentle as he’d _just_ been, but this was _Mike’s_ fantasy and he could envision whatever he wanted to. He wanted to imagine that if he’d actually accepted Will’s offer to touch him when the other man had tried, that it would have been soft touches and quiet words that accompanied it. He wanted Will’s lips on his and he wanted to press their faces together and have their breaths mingle as their bodies would. He wanted to wrap his legs around Will’s small frame to hold him firm while sweat pooled between them and he wanted to hear his Master call him by his chosen name and let him stay the night. 

Mike whimpered and shuddered before opening his mouth in a silent cry. He let the water wash over him and flush his secret down the drain as if it had never been at all. 

**

Mike woke early, as was typical of him, and crawled out of his nook to stand and stretch. He rolled his shoulder, trying to ease the tight, stiff feeling that often accompanied it in the mornings as he walked towards his dresser to retrieve some clothes. Once he was dressed and had run a comb through his hair, brushed his teeth, and washed his face, Mike padded to the kitchen. He stopped at the coffee machine Will seemed to worship and looked at it curiously. Mike didn’t drink any, but it was something his Master seemed to enjoy, so Mike stopped to examine it with scrutiny, to figure out it’s workings.

He’d seen Will use it every day since his arrival so it wasn’t hard to figure out how to work the thing and get some coffee going so it would be ready when the younger man woke and inevitably stumbled from his room and into the kitchen, seeking his caffeine fix. Mike wanted to be waiting and pleasant, with coffee ready so that the other man would see it, and him, and be more receptive to listening to what Mike had to say. 

Because even though Mike had told himself he was content with what he’d been lucky enough to have been given, even though he knew Mr. Byers didn’t want him, Mike wanted more. Will had let Mike hold him (for a while at least), had let him touch totally unrestricted because Mike had been able to offer him something Mr. Byers had needed at that moment. If Mike could continue to be helpful in that way, if he could make himself invaluable in whatever way Will needed, then maybe he could have that again. It was a pretty thought, and it was one Mike wanted to hold on to. 

Will drank coffee every day; Mike could make it for him. They went to the dry cleaners on Saturdays; Mike could get the clothes ready. Last night, Will had needed to be comforted. Mike could do that too, as often and in any way Will needed him to. Mike just had to figure out what it was Will actually needed from him. It wasn’t help with his work; nothing Will typed into his computer and nothing that appeared on the screen when he did made any sense to Mike at all. Mike tried his best of course, but what could he really do when he’d barely even mastered saving and opening documents? He still had trouble opening a web browser and truth be told, he didn’t even know if he was _allowed_ to be using it at all. That being said, Mr. Byers never seemed to check on what Mike was doing on the laptop or if he did, he didn’t seem to care that the Domestic had made it to the home page and shortcuts Will had set up there more than once. 

Out of curiosity, Mike had clicked on two or three of the links on the homepage to see what would happen when he did. One took him to some sort of platform for people to talk to each other about current events or really whatever seemed to be on their minds (who was the Mothman and why did people want to peg him?). Another of the links took him to the website Mike used to transcribe all of Will’s work notes, so it was the one Mike used the most often. It even had a little icon of Will in the top right corner that smiled pleasantly as he worked and Mike liked to glance up at it from time to time. 

But that was about as far as Mike had gotten when it came to computer skills and knowledge. So Mike made the coffee and gathered the clothes and tried to ingratiate himself to Will as best he could before he asked for this, this thing he wanted. 

He was a little nervous with butterflies battering their wings against his empty stomach, but he couldn’t show it. Confidence was the key to most things in life, so Mike had to do something to keep his hands from fidgeting. He couldn’t make this seem like something _he_ wanted; it had to be something for _Mr. Byers_ , not 8908. Anything 8908 had ever wanted had been taken from him eventually, once he’d made it known it was an actual desire or pleasure. This contract was only two years, twenty four months (twenty three now, one was almost gone), 8908 had to enjoy this while he had it. But first, he had to get it. 

Mike settled for grabbing a bowl and pouring the overly sweet cereal that Will ate instead of actual food and started picking at it to keep himself occupied. Mike didn’t really care if he ate it, it was just something to do with his hands. Frankly, it was almost like taking a bite straight from a sugar cube and it made his stomach turn but what else was he supposed to do while he waited? Will kept the house clean and organized, so there was nothing to nervously dust or put away, and Mike had finished transcribing the notes last night long before his Master had called it quits. He supposed he could read or listen to music but the distracted, frantic way his mind was wandering would have made it impossible to concentrate on anything other than trying to figure out what it was he was going to say once the opportunity presented itself. Mike could feel his lips moving, silently practicing his words, testing out different ways to ask. Every speech and thought vanished like mist as soon as Will walked in the room. 

He was more disheveled than Mike had ever seen him. The petite, slender man was clad only in a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt that cheerfully declared ‘the cake is a lie!’. He didn’t even have any socks on and his face was pale, hidden beneath the mess his hair was from sleep. It was the least put together Mike had ever seen him. Even when Mr. Byers wasn’t working, he still seemed to prefer non descript polos or button downs and he _always_ brushed his hair. The way he looked right now was downright casual and Mike wondered if this is what Will looked like every morning, if this was his ‘just woke up and rolled out of bed’ look. For a second, Mike forgot what it was he was going to say, so he just watched Will shuffle his feet while the shorter man surveyed the room. 

“Morning,” Mike finally offered, breaking the heavy silence between them. 

“Good morning,” Mr. Byers replied as he headed toward the coffee pot. 

Mike watched, pleased with himself for having figured the device out as Will made a b line towards it and poured himself a cup. Mike kept his eyes trained on the younger man while Will pulled the refrigerator open and began to dig through it, searching for creamer with unsteady hands. Mike took a bite of the soggy, overly sweet cereal just so he had something to so with his own. 

“Are you okay?” he finally asked when Will didn’t speak again. 

It was strange and off putting to be the one to have to try and start a conversation. Will was usually the one who tried to engage in small talk and nervous chatter, so having him be so still and quiet was starting to make 8908 feel uncomfortable and skittish. Had he done something wrong again?

“I… don’t know,” Mr. Byers said, eyes still laser focused on the coffee in his hands. 

8908 shifted, confidence faltering. 

“Still stressed about work?” he asked as he took another bite of the mushy, sugary stuff in his bowl, hoping his voice didn’t sound as tight and uncomfortable as his throat felt. 

The fact that Will wasn’t speaking was making this so much worse than what Mike had prepared himself for. Unless he was giving a presentation or was in a meeting, the younger man tended to chatter, at least to Mike. Will seemed to be more reluctant to speak to his coworkers and Mike was a little pleased when he realized Will preferred _his_ company over actual, other people. It had honestly been a little annoying at first, when 8908 hadn’t been used to him, when each word felt like it had hidden meaning and that all Will was doing was trying to pry information from him. Once he figured it out, that Will actually just wanted to talk and that it was almost like a nervous tic (the same way he chewed his nails or peeled labels off of things), Mike sort of enjoyed it. Mike would never have said he particularly liked to talk before, but he didn’t mind sharing his thoughts with his Master when he was invited to. Sometimes Will even chattered to himself, under his breath while he worked. Mike wondered if it helped, to talk to yourself in order to work out a problem.

But Will wasn’t talking now, not even to comment on the coffee or the weather or to complain about another deadline he was sure he wouldn’t meet (but always did). 8908 watched Will sit two stools down from him and continue to look down at his coffee, apparently more interested in it than in 8908. 

“About last night…”

8908 swallowed, throat still constricted. 

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry about that. About all of it.”

8908 blinked and hesitated, confused by the apology. 

“Why?”

“I… I never meant to do that. Never meant to make you do something like that. I’m sorry,” Will whispered, eyes lowered, still focused on his coffee. “I’m so sorry,” Will said again, practically choking on the words.

Mike paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth, not sure he was understanding what Will was trying to say to him. Did… was Will under the impression that he’d _made_ Mike do that? That it had been _forced_? 8908 had been forced; more than once (fuck, hundreds of times if he was honest). What happened last night… Will hadn’t even _touched_ Mike other than to hold his shirt for balance. He’d offered Mike a way out, an opportunity to leave the situation if he’d wanted it. Now he was refusing to even look at Mike (forget about touching him, about _forcing him_ ) because he what, felt _guilty_? No one felt guilty. No one felt _anything_ for Domestics. No one who was a real person cared enough to. 

No one but Will. 

Mike blinked again and moved from the stool he was on to the one next to his small Master, wanting to be closer to him. 

“You didn’t make me do anything,” Mike tried, having difficulty with voicing his thoughts. It was hard to organize them, to even _trust_ that he’d understood correctly what it was Will was trying to say. “I wanted to.”

Mike tilted his head, tried to see Will’s face better. The younger man was hunched over, trying to conceal the redness of his face and eyes, trying to hide the ignominy he felt. Mike tried again. 

“You were upset and you’ve been so kind, I wanted to help you,” _I wanted to do it._

“You tried to kill yourself the first night you were here. You tried to run after that. How kind can I possibly be?” the younger man asked, still not looking up to meet Mike’s eyes. 

Mike twisted in his seat. Was he doing it again? Was he staring too long and too hard for the other man to bear? He turned his gaze to the side, to relieve Will of whatever it was about Mike looking at him that made the shorter man so uncomfortable. Instead, Mike turned his attention to the calendar Will kept near the stove despite having one on both his computer and phone. It seemed quaint to still keep a paper one and Mike let his eyes meet the collie puppy’s that stared back at him cheerfully. 

“That first night… it wasn’t because of you. I was shown a good deal of cruelty before, with previous engagements,” _you have no idea the amount of cruelty._ “And… I was just afraid. Afraid you’d be the same, or worse. But you’re not,” Mike whispered, still struggling to express himself after a lifetime of being told not to, that his thoughts didn’t matter anymore than a flea’s did. 

They mattered to Will, so Mike tried to form the words and just spit them out. “You never used the correctional tools or laid a hand on me, so when you were upset the way that you were, I knew I could comfort you,” Mike said, leaning a little closer so he could be near to Will even if he couldn’t turn his eyes back to the other man, even if he couldn’t actually look at him, “That I _wanted_ to comfort you. You’ve been so kind to me. I could keep comforting you. If you want me to,” Mike hurried to say, worried that he was coming on too strong, that he’d said too much despite the feeling that it hadn’t been enough or that he hadn’t actually been clear.

Will finally looked over at Mike and cleared his throat. The taller man let his eyes shift back, just a fraction, to watch. 

“You don’t have to have sex with me just to make me feel better. That’s not why I picked you.”

Mike winced a little before correcting himself. It still hurt when Will reminded him that he didn’t want 8908. But the apology Will had given, the guilt in his voice… Maybe he just didn’t want to make Mike feel like he _had_ to be available sexually if he didn’t want to. Did it have anything to do with desire (or lack thereof) at all? Or was it because Will thought of what other Masters did, what _8908’s_ other Masters had done, as wrong?

That heavy, light, uncomfortable emotion tried to swell up in Mike again and he pushed it down. 

“I know. I believe you. I’m trying to be a good assistant to you, to ease your stress that way, but I know I’m lacking. There are things I don’t lack in though, ways I can help you outside of an office…” he whispered, voice low from the emotion he felt despite his efforts to repress it. 

He turned his eyes away again, leaned forward so he could smell Will’s skin, and whispered the thing he’d been wanting to say, the thing he’d planned on asking for all morning. 

“I’m good at it and I want to. I liked it last night. Liked the way you felt under my hands, the way you moved and there are ways for you to let go and feel good without that,” he breathed, grateful that his voice was as steady as it was. ” You don’t even have to touch me. It’s not that personal,” he added, just in case Will really was repulsed by him as well as felt guilty for letting his natural reaction be to respond when Mike climbed into bed with him. “You’d never have to do that if you didn’t want to, all you have to do is give over a little control.”

“What exactly are you suggesting?” Will asked after a moment, still not moving from where he’d rooted himself to the stool. “What are you offering, here?” 

Mike perked up a little at the question. That wasn’t an outright rejection. Will was asking for more details, some clarity. Mike could do that. He was just thrilled Will was talking to him at all after how quiet he’d been. He was trying to engage with Mike again, trying to keep the conversation going instead of shutting it down. 

“Honestly, whatever you need,” Mike hurried to say. I’ll give you whatever you want. “I know a few ways to help you unwind and we’d only take it as far as you wanted,” _I could hold you, stroke you, keep you safe and calm when you’re having a breakdown. You could reach for me instead of for all those pills and liquor. I promise, I’m so much better than any of those things. I can be so much better than any of that._ “You’d be in total control, with the illusion of not being.”

_You’re still my Master, you’re in charge here. I’m doing this **for you** (for me). You don’t need to worry. _

Will made that nervous, anxious little laugh that was always just a moment away. 

“What does that mean?”

“Exactly what I said. You need someone to hold you, to stroke your hair and whisper sweet nothings, I’m right here,” Mike said as he tilted his head and changed course, deciding on offering _everything_ he could. “You don’t want soft hands? You need someone to pull your hair and slap you around and choke you and tell you what a bad boy you are? I’m here for that too.”

That nervous laugh escaped Will again, almost throwing Mike off (thank god he was practiced in controlling his expressions and had figured out the laugh was nothing personal, just nerves on Will’s part). He placed his hands on the kitchen island to keep them from fidgeting or worse yet, trying to touch Will. Mike let his eyes wander again, until they were back on the programmer next him. Will was flushed and red, mouth still parted from his laughter and he was looking down at the counter. His hazel eyes kept flickering back and forth in a manner similar to how he looked at his computer screen when he was thinking too fast for anyone but him to keep up with.

“Are, are you talking about BDSM?” Will finally asked, voice a little shaky as he looked up, focusing in on Mike.

Mike paused, a little taken aback. Well, he _hadn’t_ been talking about that specifically but if that was the concept Will had latched onto… Mike wouldn’t say no. At least it was _something_ , even if it was a little rougher than what he’d intended. Mike shouldn’t have been surprised really. The things in the drawer should have been a clue towards Mr. Byers inclinations, even if his passive and nervous demeanor wasn’t. 

“I’m talking about relaxing you, taking care of you, in any way you need. If it takes a little slap and tickle to get you unwound enough to sleep at night... Just think about it,” Mike finished with a shrug, trying to exude the confidence he’d been trying to build in himself all morning.

Next to him, Will twitched, almost a shudder. Well, that must have been the right answer for once. Mike suppressed the smile that tried to rise at how pleased he was to finally have said something right. 

“I’ll think about it,” Will whispered, eyes back to looking at the counter, face still red, breath still uneven. 

Mike shrugged again and took another bite of the sugary mush in his bowl. 

**

Mike hadn’t expected an answer right away, that would have been unreasonable. Mike knew Will was the kind of person who needed to think things over, consider his options, weigh the choices, and make a decision after careful (anxious) consideration. Mike didn’t bring up the offer again; it was there if Will wanted it. All he had to do was ask. 

Mike went about his days in much the same way as he had since his initial arrival. He worked on transcribing Will’s notes, he kept his head low around the PAMs and Mr. Dante, and tried to be as good of an assistant as he could be. He picked up mail and memos and went on coffee runs. hell, he’d been thrilled to do so. The first time Will handed Mike his credit card and asked him to go downstairs to the cafeteria, Mike couldn’t believe the level of trust he’d been given. Not only was he allowed to leave the office, leave the _floor_ to explore the rest of the building, Will had give Mike his _credit card_ , had given him total access to Will’s funds and Mike could have taken it and run off or spent money on something for himself or or... or _something_ forbidden. Mike had to duck his head to hide and suppress his expression of excitement as he fiddled with the card in his hands. 

Mike did all of these things, but mostly he waited, and everything was normal, boringly so; until it wasn’t. 

Mike had been lounging on the balcony and reading, enjoying the late evening breeze when it happened. So far as he knew, he hadn’t even done anything to provoke it. He hadn’t been encroaching on Will’s space (though Mike did plan on joining him for dinner later), he hadn’t been invasive, or clingy, or overly needy since his offer, so what caused it? It was so unexpected that when Will opened the sliding glass door and stepped out, Mike had rolled his head to look over his shoulder at the other man and almost grinned. He’d initially thought Will was coming to join him for some fresh air and his customary evening glass or two of wine and chit chat, but before Mike could even open his mouth to speak, Will did. 

“Hey Mike. I have a private phone call from an old friend soon. It’s gonna take about an hour or so, I think. Do you mind staying out of the office for a while?” the programmer asked, hand still on the door. 

Mike looked at the other man, face falling as the excitement he had felt faded away. 

What? What friend? Will had never had company over before, he’d never tried to hide his phone calls (even the ones from his family), and he’d never asked Mike to leave when he took a call before. Why was he asking Mike to stay away when Mike wasn’t even in the room where the call was going to take place? Why was he being preemptively banned from a room he wasn’t even in? Who was the call from and why was it so private? Mike felt an emotion that was almost more uncomfortable than the light, heavy feeling he got from time to time the longer he looked at his Master and processed the request. 

Mike turned away and raised his book again, not trusting himself to keep his expression under control as the unfamiliar emotion tried to paint itself on his features. 

“As you wish.”

“Okay, thanks,” Will whispered, voice soft. 

Mike didn’t bother to watch Will go, didn’t even acknowledge the screen door closing as Will left. That uncomfortable emotion felt too much like the envious feeling he used to get whenever he thought about the other, luckier designations and how they were trained in interesting things and better educated than him. This felt similar, but worse somehow. 8908 had never really felt that envy directed at another Domestic; it was just a sort of vague, upsetting feeling. But now Mike felt that unfamiliar emotion directed at another person. 

Mike felt envious of this… _friend_. 

Who was this person? Why were they so important that the very fact they were calling (for the first time since Mike had been brought here he might add) meant that Mike had to be banished from the room the call would take place? What was it about the exchange that Will didn’t want Mike to witness so badly that he’d come out _just to tell Mike to stay away_?

Mike curled around himself and rolled over in the chair, presenting his back to the door as he tried to figure out exactly what it was he was feeling. 

Mostly, it was hurt. 

And what he was coming to realize, jealousy. 

Why the fuck was he jealous? Mike got to have Will everyday, this mystery caller had him for only an hour (if that). Still, Mike had spent _weeks_ trying to get his Master’s attention and as soon as this _friend_ needed to call, Mike was pushed away. Not just pushed to the side, but actually being actively told to _stay away_ and not bother the pair. 

Was he really that big of a nuisance? Did 8908’s mere presence really cause Mr. Byers enough discomfort that 8908 wasn’t even allowed to be around him when he took a call from a friend? Was he _embarrassing_ to Mr. Byers? _Who was this friend?_ (Was it a past lover?)

That feeling flared again and 8908 squeezed his eyes shut to squash it down. 

_Fucking stop it. It doesn't matter who the call is from. Mr. Byers doesn’t want you around and it’s your job to do what he wants. He’s allowed to have friends and he doesn’t have to disclose them or his conversation to **you. You’re** not his friend, or his lover. You’re not a coworker or even his employee. You’re his **property**. You’re an insect. You’re less than that, you’re **nothing**. Just stay away and leave it alone._

8908 would have stayed there, on the balcony until he was called for but the air turned cold after half an hour and he was starting to shake from it. Mr. Byers hadn’t banned him from the whole apartment, just the office. 8908 gathered himself up and headed to the livingroom to sprawl out there instead. He made a mental note of the closed office door when he passed and turned away from it, face hotter than he liked. 

8908 settled on the pearl white sofa and tried to get comfortable there, but his shoulder hurt and his head was starting to ache as well. Annoyed, 8908 pulled the book open and almost ripped it’s spine with how forcefully he did. He tried to focus on the object in his hands instead of the discomfort he felt but it was a challenge. Little nagging thoughts kept coming unbidden and 8908 was having difficulty quieting them. He read for about twenty minutes before even realizing he hadn’t actually retained anything of the chapter and a half he’d just gone over. 8908 ground his teeth in frustration and flipped the pages back, determined to start again, but froze when Mr. Byers padded over and sat across from him. 

“Are you hungry?”

8908 didn’t look up. He kept his eyes trained on the page he’d already read (but couldn’t remember) and considered. 

“No.”

It was a lie. He _was_ hungry but had assumed that he and Mr. Byers would eat together. After he’d been sent away, 8908 had been too distracted to get himself some food from the pantry, and now his stomach ached and cramped with the familiar discomfort of being empty. 

He had expected Will to make some sounds of displeasure and insist that Mike eat something because it was something they always did together and the Domestic was still on the low end of the ‘normal’ weight category. Mike was hesitant to admit it, even to himself, but he _wanted_ Will to insist that he eat. He just wanted the reassurance that Will hadn’t forgotten about him after his phone call, but Mr. Byers didn’t acknowledge it further. That stung a little and 8908 kept his eyes on the book in his hands while Will picked up the remote to turn on his television. 

It was a distracting thing, so large that it took up most of the wall it occupied. 8908 thought it was strange that Mr. Byers would have something so large and intrusive that he never used. Well, obviously not _never_ since he’d just turned the thing on and was steadily flipping through the channels. 

8908 stayed still and quiet, nursing that hurt while keeping his eyes firmly planted on the book as Mr. Byers tried to decide on something to watch. Was he supposed to stay where he was? He hadn’t been asked to leave ( _again_ ), but was it really appropriate for a Domestic to be doing this? Was it alright to be in the same room as an active television? 8908 doubted it was a test; Mr. Byers had said that Mike was allowed to watch television whenever he wanted and had even offered to teach him how to use the thing, but 8908 had never done it before. 

Despite himself and while he was still trying to decide what the best course of action was, 8908 felt his eyes wander to the screen when someone started speaking. 

“Everybody, heads up! Heads up! Keep it clear!”

The scene was dark and 8908 didn’t let his eyes linger on it for more than a moment. There were men with guns and cattle prods and a crate was being brought in, only lit by flood lights. Something in the crate growled and 8908 glanced up again. He watched the men circle around and move the crate to corral and control whatever was inside. 8908 tilted his head to the side to see better when the animal snarled and shook the crate so badly it knocked one of it’s captors to the ground. The animal latched on and tried to drag the man back into it’s crate to devour him. 

The men were attacking the animal now, using their cattle prods to control her and 8908 winced in sympathy. For a second, he almost touched his collar, like he could feel phantom shocks from his own device every time one of the prods sprung to life to hurt the animal. 

“Shoot her!” one of the men shouted as he still tried to save his comrade. “Shoot her!”

The guns fired and the scene faded away to one of a man in a tan suit standing unsteadily on a raft. 8908 turned his attention back to his book, put off by what he’d just seen. He still listened though, ears pricking up when he heard the names ‘Dr. Grant’ and ‘Mr. Hammond’. 8908 recognized the names. What was this?

He glanced over the top of his book from time to time, trying to keep up with the story but not be obvious about it. Mr. Byers was intent on the screen, on the movie, and 8908 didn’t think it would be _bad_ exactly, if he decided to watch too. It was just that years and years of conditioning and instruction to stay away from things like this was making a heavy, sinking feeling of dread curl in his belly whenever he spent too long looking at the screen. 

It was hard not to though. Mike knew what this story was; he’d chosen his name in part due to the author. Mankind had gotten greedy and had started crafting and creating animals that had no other purpose than to entertain and amuse people. They raised them from birth and they kept them under control with electricity and fences and what choice did the animals have? None. Well, none until the electricity was gone and the fences were destroyed… then the dinosaurs fought back. 

Mike watched, envying them. He watched in fascination as these powerful, deadly animals fought for their freedom, killing and terrorizing their captors as they breached even the most secure of places. Of course Mike didn’t want the children to get hurt, but the others? Fuck them. Let them fall to the teeth and claws they had exploited and profited from. What right did they have to create life, contain it, abuse it, and exploit it for their own purposes?

Mike kept his eyes glued to the screen with a mixture of interest and excitement, wondering what _he’d_ do if he had teeth and claws to defend himself with. Would he fight for his own freedom? He didn’t know. Mike glanced at Will who sat still as stone, face a little pale as chaos reigned down around the characters. Will’s eyes were wide and focused on the screen as he watched, his knee bouncing in anxiety, and Mike felt a twinge of guilt for his disloyal thoughts. Will was more like the children or Dr. Sattler than the other characters; mostly innocent but caught up in and thrust into a situation beyond their control. 

When the movie was over, when the characters were safe and the dinosaurs claimed the island as their own, Will stretched and glanced over at Mike. 

“There’s a second movie. Whole series in fact. I was thinking about renting them later this week,” Will commented, more to himself than to Mike. 

Mike dropped the smile he’d had when the dinosaurs had won their freedom and driven the men away. Was he supposed to respond to that statement about renting the other movies?

“If you like.”

“I don’t really want to watch them alone so… if you don’t mind keeping me company… you’d be doing me a favor if you just hung out with me while I did,” Will said as he picked up the remote and flipped the television back off. “You don’t have to watch if you don’t want to, I know you don’t like tv. Just um, if you don’t mind being nearby? You could read like you were now. Just if you don’t mind.”

Mike turned his attention fully to Will now that the screen was off and wouldn’t be such a distraction. He made sure to keep his face calm and collected. The smaller man didn’t need to know that Mike had just been fantasizing about what it might be like to gain his own freedom, what he might do if he had the power to fight back. Will didn’t need to know that Mike had been rooting for the dinosaurs to win and had been internally cheering when each one of their captors and exploiters was shredded and eaten. He didn’t need to know how badly Mike wanted to see more. 

“As you wish,” Mike breathed as he prayed it came out as calmly and non committally as he’d intended it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so long to upload. I’ve been so busy that I didn’t even have it fully written until earlier today (I usually have them done on Tuesday and take the next day to type and edit). I hope this one doesn’t have too many typos and mistakes, because I’d really rather take the whole day to edit but worried I wouldn’t get it posted at all if I took too long editing. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated. Be well and take care of yourselves.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike has an uncomfortable experience in the office after hours. Mike talks to Will’s friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: language, brief gore/disturbing images, threats, unwanted touching, suicidal thoughts.

_”Get off of me!” he snarled as he threw his weight back with as much force as he could muster in an attempt to dislodge the hands on him._

_It didn’t matter. 8908 didn’t weigh much and even the frantic, erratic way he hurled himself back and forth couldn’t free him from the people who dragged him like he was little more than a petulant child having a tantrum. He tried to dig his heels in but his bare feet slipped across the tile. He tried to pry his skinny arms free but every time he managed to almost slip one loose, it was caught again. 8908 craned his neck to see behind him, to beseech the man who watched all of this impassively._

_“Master, please! Please! I’m sorry!”_

_His words fell on deaf ears; Brenner didn’t even react when 8908 called for him. Instead, 8908 was hauled away and around a corner where 8908 couldn’t even see the white haired man anymore. 8908 jerked and almost fell as his knees went weak and he looked around. There was a smell down here. It was something old and rotting and 8908 felt his mouth go dry when he saw the hall they were bringing him to was filled with doors on both sides. There were pitious sounds coming from behind a few of them; little whimpers and hushed sobs._

_“Please, I’m so thirsty…”_

_“Is someone out there?”_

_“How long have I been here?”_

_“Please. Please please please…”_

_8908 wanted to scream but his throat was so constricted that all he managed was a pathetic gurgle of sound. 8908 heaved himself back again, one last try to break free as one of the technicians released him to unlock the door they had selected. With only one holding him and with the adrenaline he felt, 8908 finally, **finally** broke the grip on him and scrambled back. He only made it three steps before the collar activated and made him stumble. 8908 was shoved roughly through the open door while still reeling from the pain of the shock, and even though he clutched at the frame, his hands were too slick with sweat to grip it and he lost his hold. 8908 was forced backward and he tripped over something that sent him sprawling. The smell was terrible, so strong that he had to press a hand to his mouth to keep from retching as the door closed and locked behind him. _

_8908 pushed himself up onto his forearms to look around and this time the scream managed to free itself from the prison that was his throat._

_It was a body. 8908 had tripped over a body and he was halfway tangled in it, like it was holding him in a lover’s embrace. He struggled to free himself and kick the thing away or move himself as far in the opposite direction as he could while fighting down the panic he felt. 8908 shouted again when he felt something writhe against his skin and he jerked at the sight of the maggots on his arm and clothes. They must have come from the body, the one he’d tripped over when he’d be forced into the room._

_8908 swatted at them desperately, near hyperventilating as he tried to knock them off and clamber away from the corpse he now shared a room with._

_**Don’t look at it don’t look at it don’t look at it.** _

_What else was he supposed to look at? There was a **corpse** and it **stank** and it was less than six feet away from him. 8908 tried not to look, tried not to recognize it. He prayed that his brain would be kind enough to do that trauma thing that would sometimes happen, the blank out static that happened when something was so horrible the mind couldn’t even process what it was seeing. It didn’t. _

_The corpse was CPM6281 and she was staring at him with an eyeless face, her mouth parted as wriggling, white worms crawled over her skin._

_6281\. So that’s where she’d gone. She’d been thrown in here after her outburst last month and she’d been forgotten, left here to die. 8908 pressed his hands to his eyes in an attempt to force the vision away but it didn’t matter (nothing ever mattered). 6281 had made her home there in his mind and 8908 couldn’t chase her away._

_He was going to die here too. They threw him in here and they were going to forget about him just like they’d forgotten about her, and 8908 was going to die from dehydration or starvation with only a corpse for company._

_8908 scooted around the edge of the room, as far away from the body of his fellow subject as he could and pressed his back against the closed door. He twisted to turn away from her and forced himself to stand on shaky legs so he could look out the small window but there was no one there to see. They’d forgotten him already._

_“Please!” he tried, voice soft and ineffective as it joined the others. “Master, please! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Please let me out!”_

_There was no movement in the hall and the only whisper of sound was from the other voices that joined him in his cries._

_“Brenner! Master! Please let me out! Please!” he sobbed, voice cracking as tears formed in his eyes. “ **Please let me out!** I swear I’ll behave! **I swear!** ”_

He woke with a yelp of pain as his head cracked against the wall at how hard he had jerked in his sleep. Mike blinked and rolled over to orient himself as he rubbed the quickly forming knot on his skull. He was in the closet, alone, and safe in Will’s apartment. There were no corpses here, no stench, no technicians, no maggots or buzzing flies, and no Brenner. Mike leaned back slowly and listened for the sounds of movement from the next room over, worried that the noises he’d been making would be enough to rouse even Will from whatever deep stage of sleep he was most certainly in. Mike pressed a hand to the wall and listened but heard nothing. Mike rolled again and crawled out of his safe, enclosed space, and moved to the shower. 

He’d been surprised when Will was awake and waiting for him in the kitchen. Had the other man gotten up and dressed while Mike showered or had he already been up and about while Mike thrashed in his sleep, trying to chase the nightmares away? If he had, it would be the first time since Mike had been brought here that it happened. Mike felt a sudden rush of nerves at the thought. It wasn’t like being awake, waiting, and at Will’s disposal was something that had ever been _ordered_ of 8908 by Mr. Byers, but it was still a break from routine and it caused Mike to shift uncomfortably. 

Mike’s fears were quickly dispelled when Will smiled brightly and offered him an egg and cheese sandwich. 

“Eat up and get your shoes. I’m taking you out today.”

Mike did. He ate every bite even though the eggs were over cooked and rubbery (had Will cooked them instead of ordering in?) and slipped his shoes on, a feeling of excitement replacing his earlier feeling of dread. As it turns out, Will was taking him to Tippecanoe Lake. Mike wasn’t sure what the point was (Will didn’t own a boat, did he?) but he enjoyed the alone time with his Master nonetheless. 

Will watched the boats and chattered about how his mom used to take him here with his brother when they were kids and Mike watched Will instead of the water, wondering what he might have been like as a child. Was he as nervous back then as he was now? Did he like to run in the sand or did he prefer swimming in the water as the children on the shoreline did now? What was his mother like? Was she the woman in the photos with the soft eyes and kind smile? Mike had heard her voice when she called to talk to her son (Will had never sent him away when _she_ called…). 

When they stood on the dock and watched the water, Will asked Mike if he wanted to get in. It was a strange question and Mike had to consider it. _Did_ he want to get in? He wasn’t wearing swimming clothes. If Mike stepped off the edge of the dock and took the plunge, he might be able to kick and surface even with his clothes soaking and weighing him down. He could swim of course. It would be difficult to kick and fight, but he could probably manage to keep his head above water if he wanted to. If Mike stepped off the edge now, would he even want to try? 

Mike thought about it. He thought about stepping off the ledge and letting his water drenched clothes pull him down into the dark, so similar to the tank, and taking a deep breath of water to fill his lungs and drown. Was that what Will was offering? Freedom? A few weeks ago, Mike might have accepted. Now Mike looked at Will, at his soft hazel eyes and half smile and knew he didn’t want to. 

“No thank you.”

After Mike declined the offer, Will took them back to the beach to walk along the sand while he continued to talk about his past experiences here. He talked about how there was clay in the water and how he used to dig it up to try and sculpt with it but it was always too wet and full of rocks. Mike listened and looked around as he did but his eyes focused on a small pile of… something. Something poked out from beneath the sand, half visible where it was buried. Mike nudged it gently with the toe of his shoe to see what it was while Will kept walking and talking, and froze. There, buried in the sand, was a crumpled dollar bill. 

It was dirty, damp, and forgotten by whoever had left it there. Mike bent to pick it up and looked instinctively at Will. He should hand this over, shouldn’t he? Domestics weren’t permitted to have any cash at all unless it was given to them and this hadn’t been given. 8908 should present it to his Master. 

Mike hesitated. He’d been the one to find it, why shouldn’t he keep it? No one else wanted it. If they had, it wouldn’t have been forgotten in the sand, left to wash away and get lost in the water. Will wasn’t in need of cash and he might even reject the filthy discovery Mike had made if Mike tried to give it to him. Will might try to make Mike put it back, too disgusted to even touch it. 

Mike stuck it in his pocket and hurried to catch up to the other man who was still walking near the water. They walked together a long time until Will had suggested they return home to rent the second Jurassic Park movie. They’d sat together watching and eating overly salted popcorn and Mike had thought for a moment that Will might ask for him when their shoulders or thighs brushed together when either shifted their positions, but he didn’t. They had parted ways and had no further interactions that evening, though Mike had wondered if Will might knock on his door at some point. Still, even though he was never sent for, the alone time with Will had been more personal attention than Mike had hoped for, more satisfying than any Domestic had a _right_ to hope for, and he shouldn’t be greedy. 

**

Mike didn’t mind staying late in the office to work. If nothing else, it afforded him time alone with Will where the other man wasn’t drowning himself in alcohol or pills. It was odd, but Will seemed more comfortable here, in the quiet of the mostly empty building than he did at his own home. Mike wondered why. Will had everything he could want there, and there was no pressure from supervisors or coworkers in the safety of his home. Maybe it was a different kind of pressure he was hiding from. 

Mike glanced up as Will squirmed and adjusted himself. He watched as the shorter man gripped the chair and twisted, trying to crack his back with varying degrees of success and Mike felt a smirk trying to form on his lips before he forced it away. 

“You okay?” Mike asked after a moment of watching Will struggle to find a comfortable position. 

“I’ll be fine, I’m just a little stiff,” Will assured him as he stopped his movements. 

“You’d probably feel better if you didn’t have the posture of a half cooked lasagna noodle. You sit like the drunk at the end of the bar who’s trying to keep their head up just high enough that they don’t get cut off,” Mike said without thought as he looked back down at his notes, pen still moving.

“Been to a lot of bars, huh?”

Mike looked back up, surprised. Had he said that out loud? Was Will angry with him?

“I’ve been to enough,” he whispered, recalling the taste of liquor and how it helped numb him when the way the music pulsed and thrummed as he danced in the Go-Go cages while patrons leered. 

“Oh, that’s funny coming from the guy who gets a caffeine buzz from green tea. I bet it’d only take two shots and _maybe_ one beer to have you under the table,” Will said with a half concealed laugh. 

Mike liked that, Will’s laugh. It used to make him nervous, but this one seemed genuine and he glanced up so he could see the shorter man more fully. 

“Well, I’ll have to defer to your judgement then since you’re the expert on that subject,” he offered in return to the teasing jab. 

When Will didn’t respond, 8908 shrunk. Oh, that had been rude. It had been terribly disrespectful and he’d stuck his foot in his mouth again. At least he was fairly certain he wouldn’t get shocked for his insolence, but he had to apologize and take the words back if he ever wanted to gain his Master’s affections. 8908 opened his mouth to apologize but Will cut him off. 

“Listen, we all have our expertise. Mine happens to be in the fine art of boozing. If I ever need to know eighty three ways to give someone an orgasm, I’ll call you, okay?”

Mike paused, unsure what to say. Will wasn’t angry, he was making a joke. One about sex and how Mike knew things about it, was an _expert_ in that arena. Did that mean that Will thought about it? About Mike’s offer? Did that little joke have any subtext, any clue about where Will’s mind wandered to when he thought about Mike (if he thought about him at all...)? Mike shifted, trying to decide how to keep the subject going. 

“You insult me, Sir.”

“I’m sorry, I-”

“- I know one hundred and twenty seven ways to bring someone to orgasm, and that’s just the men. For women there are dozens more,” Mike said, grinning wolfishly as he watched Will for a reaction to what he’d just implied. 

_I know so many things it would make your head spin. Want to have some hands on experience finding out just what sort of things I know?_

Mike grinned wider when Will laughed. It was a genuine, surprised sound and it was amazing, almost musical. Even his face, normally drawn and pale from stress, was turning red from the force at which the laugh shook him and Mike leaned back in his chair to enjoy the view. 

Mike was so intent on watching Will’s smile that he barely noticed or registered the movement from across the room. When he looked at it, let his eyes focus on it, Mike froze. It was James and he was walking towards the two of them. Mike let his face go blank as James put a hand on Will’s shoulder, startling the younger man. 

“Working late, Byers?” James asked while Mike lowered his eyes and ducked his head while he lay his hands flat to cover his designation. 

He hadn’t had time to fix his shirt or cover the correctional collar. He’d just have to hope that James was as slow and dull witted as he ever was, and that he wouldn’t notice. 

“Y- Yes Sir.”

“This isn’t part of the project. What is this?” James asked as he looked at Will’s computer screen, scrutinizing it. 

Mike peeked up from beneath his hair and felt his hackles raise at the hand on Will’s shoulder. 

“It’s… It’s just something I’ve been playing around with, Sir. My own program. Just a stupid side project and-”

“- Do you think this is an appropriate use of company resources, Byers?”

“I’m sorry, Sir. It’s just something I’ve been working on in my spare time. I was going to present it to Mr. Walsh when it’s ready and-“

“-Don't you think your time would be better spent concentrating on actual work? We have a deadline and the earnings quarter is in a few months. Get your head out of the clouds, Byers, or the only thing you’ll be presenting to Mr. Walsh is your ass when the door hits you on the way out.”

_Don’t talk to him like that. You’re so fucking condescending. This isn’t a school yard and you can’t just bully him because he’s nervous and you’re his boss. Have some respect. He’s probably the smartest person you have on your team._

“Yes Sir. I’m sorry, Sir,” Will whispered, quick to apologize for no reason that Mike could discern. 

Mike looked back down at his papers, at his ugly handwriting, and slowly ground his teeth together. In another life Mike would have stood up and told James to fuck off, to stop harassing Will for being an over achiever. In another life Mike would have ripped James’ hand clean off of Will’s shoulder (it was clearly making the other man uncomfortable) and told him to leave. This wasn’t another life and 8908 stared down at his hands as his teeth ground together so tightly he could practically hear them whine in protest. 

“It’s fine. Byers. Work on your pet project if you want but don’t forget what we actually pay you for. I’d hate for you to fall behind. Here, hang on. There’s a file in my office, second drawer down in the filing cabinet. DWARF 080220, something like that. There’s a flashdrive in there with some of the earlier prototypes, it could be useful for debugging this ah, pet project.”

God, he said the words with such disdain, as if the very idea that Will could script his own code and unique program was laughable. Mike curled and uncurled his fists in frustration. 

“Your program notes on the health systems show you’ve been having a lot of trouble with glitching. So if you’re having trouble there, with a whole team behind you, I can only guess you’re having the same issues here, with this.”

 _Condescending prick._

“Sir? You’ve been reading my notes?” Will asked in a squeaky voice, so much less sure of himself than he had been only five minutes ago when it had just been him and Mike, when they’d been joking around and trying to get to know one another.

“Of course I do. If this project fails it’s not just your ass on the line, it’s mine. I’m responsible for you fatuous nitwits so how you perform reflects on me. Go get the folder, it shouldn’t be hard to find,” James said as he handed Will a security clearance card, his eyes wandering to Mike’s general direction. 

When Will rose to stand, Mike felt his heart rate spike. 

_Wait, don’t go. Don’t leave me alone with him._

It didn’t matter what he thought though, the words stayed unspoken in his throat. When Will moved away, James kept his eyes on Mike for an uncomfortably long time before the man moved in his direction. 

“Caleb. That’s you, isn’t it? I thought it was but couldn’t be sure. You look different dressed up like that and not beat to shit.”

Mike hesitated and his hands unclenched at the words. 

Caleb. Yeah, that sounded right. It sounded like what Mother had called him. 

“Gotta say I was surprised to see you here. Never thought you were smart enough to be a PAM or an AIA. C’mon, let’s see that designation. I want to see how you’ve moved up in the world,” James said and he grabbed Mike by the forearm and twisted it to expose the tattoo. “CPM8908 huh? That’s… that’s kind of hilarious. You always thought you were such tough shit back in the day. Never put up with anything from anyone. Well, things change I guess.”

8908 sat frozen, wrist trapped where James held it. He felt his breath catch as James leaned over and flicked one of the chrome rings around his collar. 

“Got one of these, huh? What’d you do? Bite someone’s dick off while sucking it?”

The hand on his wrist let him go and 8908 immediately put his own back down to cover the destination. 

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” James said as he hooked a finger around one of the rings and tugged, yanking 8908’s head back with the force of it. “So Byers has a Companion Pleasure Model and it’s you. That’s just… comical. I can’t imagine that guy fucking anyone. So tell me tough guy, how’s it feel to be laid so low?”

8908 didn’t speak, _couldn’t_ speak. This was a nightmare. Not only had 8908 been found out, _Will_ had been too. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t actually slept together, this could tarnish his reputation regardless. No one would believe or understand that 8908 had been a mistake. 8908 was frozen and totally exposed and he couldn’t do _anything_. 

“I’ve had CPMs before. Have one right now, actually. Sweet little thing, totally passive and well mannered. I’d never bring her into the office though. People tend to touch things that aren’t theirs…” James said as he let a hand rest on 8908’s damaged shoulder and squeezed, almost drawing a sound of pain from the freckled man. “Does that still hurt? I hope it does. You had it coming, you know. Got a little too full of yourself. Well, I’m glad to see you know your place now. Apparently it’s on your knees.”

8908 stared straight ahead and tried to pretend he wasn’t here. 

_Get your fucking hands off of me._

James squeezed tighter and this time 8908 did hiss in pain. 

“Do you think Byers would mind sharing? If I asked really nice? Fuck, I could probably just _tell_ him to let me have a taste and he would. That guy doesn’t have a spine to speak of, does he?”

8908 jerked, mouth suddenly very dry. He shifted his eyes to glance up, anger coiling in his stomach. 

_I’d rather chew glass._

“You know, it’s not like you’re irresistible or anything, don’t get an ego. Just kinda feels poetic. All those years where you fought tooth and nail to be a tough guy, an individual, and now you’re the lowest of the low. I wouldn’t mind fucking you, just once. Just to see you finally submit.”

8908 felt cold, unbearably cold. 

_That’s not gonna happen. Will won’t let that happen._

James squeezed 8908’s shoulder again and leaned closer. 

“Think I’ll fuck you on this desk, right here in front of everyone. Maybe that will teach you some humility.”

8908 stayed still as stone as James pulled away and released him to take a step back. 

“Find it okay, Byers?”

“Yes Sir,” Will said as he handed the card back. “Thank you Sir, I can’t tell you how grateful I am to have the help.”

“Well, maybe you can pay me back for it sometime, if you don’t get the boot,” James replied with a pointed look at 8908. 

“Of course, whenever you need.”

_Don’t say that. You don’t know what he might want._

“Alright, well finish up here and get going, Byers. Get some rest, there’ll be plenty of work still to do in the morning.”

“Yes Sir, thank you, Sir,” Will said with an appreciative nod. “You okay, Mike?” he asked, eyes suddenly falling to the hunched man. 

“Yeah, you okay, Mike?” James asked with a barely contained sneer. 

Mike blinked and flexed his hands, hoping to bring some feeling back to them.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“I’ll leave you to it. I have work of my own to get done. Oh, and good luck with your project.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Will said, voice soft. 

A moment passed before Mike felt a hand touch his arm again. His actual arm this time, not his throbbing shoulder.

“Hey, are you alright?”

He looked up at Will, at his hazel eyes and concerned expression.

“I’m fine.”

“Do you want to head out?”

“Yes. Please.”

_Get me the hell out of here._

**

Mike was grateful, _so grateful_ that Will had allowed him to stay home the next day. Though the reason _why_ was less than desirable. 

“I have a friend who’s going to call. He wants to talk to you, if that’s okay. You don’t have to talk back, just listen to what he has to say, okay? I’ve known him for ages and he’s really nice. Just, when the computer starts ringing click on the little green phone icon, okay? That’s all I’m asking.”

Fine. Mike could do that even if he suspected the ‘friend’ calling was the one he had been sent away for. Mike watched Will leave for the day and turned to look around the now empty apartment. It was the first time he’d ever been alone here, what should he do with himself? He could read, he supposed, but he did that every day. Mike moved around the kitchen and picked up one of the books. This one wasn’t one of the sleek, never used ones. It looked hand written and bound with care, the spine held together with thick twine. Mike flipped it open and looked the recipes over. 

_Jonathan’s double cherry strudels. Grandma Byers’ twice roasted street corn. Will’s super duper crunchy munchy quiche._

Mike took the book and moved to the office to read it and wait for the phone call. He’d planned on being patient, on sitting quietly and waiting like a good Domestic until doing what was requested, but it was _so boring_. Mike set the book aside, wondering if he’d ever get a chance to try out any of the recipes within and turned to look at the computer. 

Will had left his browser open and Mike let his eyes wander over it. When was he going to get a better opportunity to try out his new found computer skills? Mike settled in to start trying different keys and search phrases. He clicked on the little icon of Will that seemed to always hover at the corner of the screen and it opened a small box that said ‘manage google account’ (whatever that was) but not much else. He clicked on the little star at the corner of the url bar but nothing seemed to happen. Mike clicked the three little dots in the furthest corner and it brought up a bar that opened up the option for ‘new tab’, ‘new window’, and ‘history’. Mike clicked on them all in turn until he got to the ‘history’ tab. Now that one was interesting. 

The history seemed to show exactly what it implied. Mike could see every web page Will had been to in the last few months. He let his eyes wander over the past pages and searches. Most were innocent queries about the current political climate, how to patent things, and what a run of the mill chest cold could possibly mean. The ones that caught Mike’s attention were a little less… innocent though. 

_Young stud fucks raw bareback. Pretty twink rides cock all night. Choking slapping cumshot. Dom punishes sub for hours. Bondage babe ropeburns. S/M play handcuffs._

Well then. These were… different. Mike clicked on one and was immediately greeted by a scene that too closely resembled the kind of films he’d been rented out on occasion to make. He quirked an eyebrow and looked over the titles again. So Will _had_ been thinking about the offer, or at least he’d been thinking about some parts of it. Mike clicked through the links and most of them seemed to focus on the rougher stuff. Was that what Will wanted? Did he want Mike to take on this role? Which one did he want? Most of the stuff was focused on powerplay and control. Mike could do that. It had been a while since he’d been asked to be dominant rather than submissive, but he couldn’t imagine that soft spoken Will would be comfortable with some of the things that were demanded of a Dom. Mike had all of those things Will had asked for in his drawer, he was sure he could fill the role easily. Maybe that was why Will hadn’t reacted when Mike had tied himself up. Maybe _Will_ wanted to be bound and gagged and was too shy to ask. 

Mike twitched in surprise when the computer started chirping at him and he quickly closed the open web pages, feeling guilty for snooping through them, and looked at the little green phone. For a moment, he considered ignoring the call, pretending he hadn’t been in the room to take it in time, but that would upset Will. Hesitantly, Mike tapped on the green phone. 

Immediately the screen changed to show an interior shot of an apartment with a man sitting quietly and smiling at him. Mike recognized him. He may have aged some since the photo was taken, but it was undoubtedly the man that decorated Will’s shelves in the picture frames. 

“Hello. I’m Scott Clarke. You must be Mike.”

Mike hesitated, unsure and feeling somewhat hostile towards this person he’d never met. Will said he didn’t have to talk, right? So he didn’t. Mike shifted in Will’s desk chair and looked away, willing to give the bare minimum but no more. 

“I’m a friend of Will’s. I used to tutor him when he was in school,” the man continued, unphased by Mike’s resistance to speaking. 

When Mike still didn’t respond, the man tilted his head and cleared his throat. 

“I understand you’re under contract with Will. Would you like to tell me about it?”

Mike glanced at the screen. 

_No. I don’t even know you. Who are you, anyway? His ‘tutor’? Why does he care so much about you? Why do **you** get a place of honor next to the pictures of his family?_

The man waited patiently, soft smile still on his face. When Mike still didn’t speak, he adjusted himself, straightened his back and let his face go placid and smooth, and dropped the smile entirely. 

“Let’s try again. Greetings, it’s a lovely day.”

8908 froze, blood running cold. He’d suspected this man was a Domestic when he saw the photo. 8908 had used his suspicions as justification as to why he couldn’t trust Will and his apparent naivety about Domestics. 8908 sat a little straighter. 

“G- Greetings. It’s a lovely day,” he whispered automatically, falling easily back into the routine. 

“Designation?” the man asked, face still calm. 

“CPM8908.”

“CPM8908, I’m SEU4279. How are you today?”

“Very well, thank you,” 8908 said, voice shaking a little. 

“May I call you Mike or would you prefer your designation?”

“My designation.”

_Mike isn’t yours. Only Will is allowed to call me that. 8908 is anyone’s meat._

“Okay, CPM. You can call me Scott. Like I said, I’m a friend of Will’s. He asked me to talk to you. He said you’ve both been having some trouble adjusting to one another. He wants me to talk to you about it. Is that alright?”

8908 looked the man over, mouth a little dry. Was Will having trouble with 8908? He didn’t think he was being particularly difficult to manage in his new placement, but maybe he was. He had stolen, caused inconvenience, and his dietary habits made him hard to feed. 8908 shrunk a little. 

“Okay.”

“I’m going to ask you a few questions. Don’t feel like you have to answer me, but it would help if you did. Do you feel safe where you are?”

“Yes.”

“Has Will ever hurt you?”

“No.”

“Has he ever corrected you?” the man asked, as if he was clarifying his early question.

“No.”

“It’s okay, you can tell me,” 4279 said, voice quiet and soothing. 

8908 hesitated. Will _hadn’t_ ever corrected him. In fact, 8908 hadn’t even seen the device since the first day. It was actually one of the strangest parts of 8908’s existence here. That and never being called upon for his purpose. 8908 had certainly done things that he should have been corrected for, but it had never happened. 

“No. He’s never corrected me.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” the man said, and it seemed to be true. His expression softened and he moved again, letting himself relax a little as he spoke. “I didn’t think he would have. Will’s always been a gentle kid. So, CPM, can you tell me about the suicide attempt?”

8908 flared a little at the reminder that this man had known Will for years. He had called himself Will’s friend and Will had confirmed that more than once. Mike wasn’t Will’s friend. He was Will’s Domestic. Why was Will friends with a Domestic at all?

“...No.”

“Okay. That’s okay. You don’t have to tell me anything. If it’s okay, I’m going to tell you a little about me. Does that sound alright?” 4279 asked, back to the gentle smile and soothing voice. 

“Yes,” 8908 agreed, though he didn’t really want to listen to this man talk about himself or his past with Will. 

What was the point? Was he just here to remind 8908 that he was lesser than 4279? Was he just here to rub 8908’s face in the fact that he was so free in his environment that he was allowed to call people and be friends with them? 8908 shrugged his shoulder and slouched a little in the desk chair.

“Okay. Well, as I said, my name is Scott Clarke. I was Domesticated at twenty three and served twelve years before I was released from my contract. My designation is SEU4279. Has anyone ever talked to you about when your contract might be up…?” the man asked, still looking 8908 over with a soft gaze. 

“Two years.”

The SEU shook his head and shifted again. 

“Not your contract with Will, your contract with the company. Has anyone ever talked to you about when you might be released from it?”

8908 sat still and quiet. His contract had an end date? He could be retired? He could be… freed? 

No. That didn’t sound right. Domestics didn’t get freedom. They spent their lives in the service of others. They were less than everyone else, they didn’t have the right to live as actual people did. Still… 8908 hadn’t seen many elderly Domestics. Maybe they _were_ freed…

Maybe they died. 

8908 looked at the thin man on the screen and tried to decide whether or not he trusted him. Domestics weren’t permitted to lie. Yes, 8908 had, but he was an outlier; he had black marks and a correctional collar. 8908 was a ‘problem product’. He averted his eyes, shook his head, and decided to listen if for no other reason than he had nothing better to do, and because Will had asked him to. 

“That’s okay. Not every Domestic has a contract end date. Your designation is CPM. Do you have any other marketable skills?”

8908 kept his eyes down. What a stupid question. 8908 had never been anything other than a body to use. He didn’t know how to do anything else, nor had anyone (other than Will) ever tried to teach him anything. He shook his head again. 

“Okay. Well, from my experience, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. If you don’t have any other marketable skills that can be exploited and sold, your service might have an end date other than, ah, your death. CPM’s don’t typically get repurposed once they are past their prime. How old are you?”

“...Twenty seven,” 8908 breathed, grateful for the first time that he was aging, that he was losing value. 

“Okay, so you don’t have a specific end date, but you’ll age out eventually if your contract is never fully purchased. You might have thirty, thirty five years left before they retire you.”

Thirty years…? 8908 wasn’t even halfway through with his contract? 8908 couldn’t do it, he couldn’t go through this for another thirty years of this… 8908 slouched down further. He should have stepped off the dock. 

And that time frame was only by this stranger’s estimation. Who was he that he thought he knew how long 8908’s servitude might last? Why was 4279’s so short and why did it start so late in life? 9808 pushed away the swirling, uncomfortable emotions that tried to over ride him, narrowed his eyes, and decided to just ask.

“Why… why was your… service so short?”

The man swallowed and raised his hands in a gesture 8908 didn’t recognize. 

“I was being punished for a crime. The sentence was twelve years.”

A crime. What sort of crime could 8908 have commited that he would be sentenced for sixty years to life? What could he possibly have done as a _newborn_ that would mean his entire life would be nothing but servitude and abuse? He didn’t know. He _did_ know that his contract had started long before he could have understood or agreed to enter into it. His earliest memories had been of being rented out to families who wanted to practice raising children before having their own. 

What had he done? Had he killed his mother in childbirth? Was his crime murder and that’s why his own life was foriet? 8908 swallowed and nodded, trying to process this. 

“What did you mean… if my contract was fully purchased?” he asked, never having heard of the concept before. 

“Most Domestics are rented, it’s rare for a contract to be purchased outright. I wouldn’t worry about it, honestly. If it hasn’t been bought by now, it probably won’t be,” the man assured him. “You’ll likely age out eventually.”

8908 nodded. That was of little comfort. It was still thirty years more before he even had a _chance_ at freedom. On the screen, the older man moved again and picked up a glass of water to take a drink from it. 8908 watched him and felt the little ray of hope he’d been feeling since 4279 had mentioned an end date to his servitude start to shrivel and die. The man looked at him again. 

“I know that’s not what you wanted to hear, and I know this is a difficult situation to be in. I want to help you in any way I can. How are you doing right now? I know Will was worried about you.”

Mike blinked, remembering who it was who set this meeting up in the first place. Will was worried about him? He looked back up at Scott and shrugged again. 

“I’m fine.”

Scott smiled like he didn’t believe Mike but was too polite to accuse a fellow Domestic of lying. 

“Okay. Do you want to talk about your relationship with Will and how he treats you?” Scott asked, trying to urge Mike into speaking. 

“No.”

“Okay. Do you want to talk about previous engagements? Will said you were a little traumatized.”

Mike chewed his lip in agitation. 

“I’m fine.”

_I’m not damaged._

“That’s fine, you don’t have to tell me. We barely know each other. Do you have any black marks on your record?” Scott asked, voice as even as it had been the entire time. 

Mike wanted to huff in annoyance. His collar was in plain view. Obviously he had black marks. He shrugged and nodded. 

“More than five?”

“Yeah.”

The man on the screen took a shaky breath and sat back a little, looking rattled for the first time since their conversation had begun. 

“How many more?”

“I have eight. I think.”

Scott nodded and closed his eyes, apparently thinking something over while he tried to gather his thoughts to speak. Why was he acting like that? Mike squirmed and sat up a little straighter. 

“Okay. Okay. That’s fine. I want you to listen to me, okay CPM? I need to speak to a few friends but I want to help you. Do you think you might want to talk to me again sometime?”

Mike shrugged again, not sure what the point was. Was this supposed to be therapeutic? All it had done was build up his hopes just to dash them and yeah, Scott seemed nice enough but Mike didn’t particularly want to talk to someone Will valued as much as he apparently did. Scott nodded and leaned forward again. 

“Do you know how to open this program? The one we’re using right now?”

Mike made a small, non committal sound. He’d never used it before but he could probably figure out how to open it since he knew what the icon looked like. 

“Alright. I have to go, I have a few calls to make. If you need me, if you need any help at all, call me on here. Honestly, night or day, for any reason. You can call. Okay?”

Mike looked away but nodded, sure he would _never_ willingly call this man on his own but not wanting to reject the offer outright. 

“Okay. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, CPM. I hope we get to talk again soon.”

Mike shrugged and kept his eyes turned away from the screen until the call disconnected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m happy I was able to get this chapter posted at a reasonable time for once and I’m happy I was finally able to get Mike’s conversation with Scott typed up. I’ve been wanting to involve Mr. Clarke in this story for ages, so it’s nice to finally get a chance to show him interacting with someone who isn't Will. I know this chapter doesn’t line up exactly with Will’s sister chapter in IKWTCBS, but I already had so much going on for Mike that I couldn’t justify extending the chapter any longer than it already was. On the plus side, we will get the ‘scene’ in it’s entirety next chapter instead of having it be broken up. So yeah, that’s a bonus. 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated. Take care of yourselves.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike tried to distract himself from what he learned after his conversation with the SEU and uncover more about Will in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Sexual content. Implied/referenced abuse/murder.

Mike stared down at the cutting board and it stared back, challenging, mocking, as he considered his options. The pie crust hadn’t been troublesome but most of the struggle had come from Mike’s own ineptitude and lack of experience with baking, not the tools he used. No, the rubber spatula hadn’t been his preference because it hadn’t provided enough solid pressure to mash down the butter effectively, but at least it wasn’t a crippling hindrance. The ingredients were simple enough and Joyce (whoever that was) had written the instructions clearly so even a novice like him could follow them. This should have been a simple task but Mike was quickly discovering there was a problem he hadn’t considered before he began; cutting the vegetables. 

He tapped the butter knife against the counter and wrinkled his brow in a frown. The dull, serrated edges had been fine, not ideal but not useless, against the tomatoes, the green onions onions (were those an appropriate substitution for chives?), and even the asparagus when he put his back into it. But the onions… How the fuck was he supposed to cut those? The garlic had been tedious but not impossible. At least they were small enough for the knife to span the entire clove. The onions though, they were too big; the serrated edges of the knife didn’t even make it halfway across the damn thing. 

Even when Mike shoved down as hard as he could, all he managed to accomplish was sending the cursed vegetable flying halfway across the kitchen. He’d managed to cut it a little, but his only reward had been an uncomfortable sting in his nose and watering of his eyes. Now, Mike stared down at the bedeviled thing and clenched his teeth. It wasn’t like he could shred it between his fingers like he’d done the follets of the broccoli. There didn’t seem to be anything he could do; he simply didn’t have the tools he needed. 

It was his fault. The neatly positioned knife rack was gone. The oversized meat scissors and the cheese grater had both vanished once Mike returned from the hospital. Even all the glassware and cleaning chemicals had been locked away in case he got the urge to eat or drink them as a way of escape. Mike really had no one to blame but himself for the lack of tools. 

Maybe he should just give up. He had no instruction or natural skill in this art. Every cut vegetable was mangled by his clumsy attempts and he’d had to try to make the dough three times before he’d been able to mold it successfully to the pan. It didn’t matter how encouragingly Joyce had written ‘You’ve got this!’ and ‘The secret ingredient is love!’ in the margins of her book, Mike was usele8ss. He looked at the mess in front of him and wilted, confidence all but gone. 

In a wave of sudden frustration and anger, he stabbed down viciously to impale the onion through the center. The motion was only stopped by the wooden cutting board beneath his butter knife and for a second, Mike flinched before he remembered there were no cameras to catch and record his violent outburst. He looked at the onion and let a puff of air out through his nose. How important could it be, really? It was just one stupid ingredient, it would never be missed. Mike pulled the onion free of the knife, threw the vexing, eye watering thing into the trash a little harder than he meant to, and turned away from it. He could at least concentrate on adding the vegetables he _had_ managed to cut (butchered as they were) into his egg and milk mixture. Mike would have preferred to use cream like the faceless Joyce had suggested, but he didn’t want to waste any if he ruined the recipe. Will liked to add copious amounts of the stuff to his coffee and Mike didn’t want to be the reason he ran out, didn’t want to have to explain that he’d wasted so much of it on failed attempts at something so simple. 

He stirred the concoction with the rubber spatula and poured the mixture into the pie crust one messy glob at a time before covering it with cling wrap and setting it in the refrigerator. At least the oven was electric instead of gas. If it had been gas, Will probably would have had the appliance removed to keep Mike from sticking his head in it. So, small blessings. At least Mike would be able to bake his pathetic attempt at the recipe. 

He glanced at the clock; there was about an hour left before Will would be back from work. That should give him plenty of time to clean up the mess he had made and keep himself busy so he didn’t have to sit with his own thoughts and feelings about his conversation with the SEU. He’d give anything to not have to think about that ever again. 

Much as he hated it, it was all he’d been able to think about since it’s conclusion. As soon as Mike stopped a task that kept him busy, the only thoughts that ran through his head were about what was said and how the SEU had looked at him, with _pity_ of all things. It was degrading existence on its own, forced into a life of servitude for the Masters, but it was _humiliating_ to get pity from a fellow Domestic. No, they didn’t all get dealt the same hands, but all Domestics were unwilling players in a game beyond their control. How dare one feel _pity_ for him, as if their designation was so much better than his. So as much as Mike tried to silence them, the words and sympathetic looks paraded through his mind over and over, relentlessly tormenting him until he wanted to scream. 

It wasn’t because 8908 had expected to ever be freed (he didn’t), but having the possibility dangled in front of him only to be ripped away was maddening. How was he supposed to handle another thirty years or more? Now that he knew he _could_ have freedom, it was like a light that drifted further away the more he looked at it. Even if two of those thirty years were spent in relative freedom and kindness under Mr. Byers employee, they were nothing, _nothing_ compared to the length of time that was his nightmarish reality outside of the apartment. He’d be an old man by the time he ever walked outside without a collar. His body would be bent, pained, and far beyond its prime before 8908 ever looked up at the stars without a cage. Would he even be able to see then or would his eyesight fail him as so often happened to people as they aged?

Mike scrubbed at the dishes, desperate for distraction. As soon as the suds ran away and disappeared down the drain, his mind started repeating those words again. He wished the thoughts would dissolve and drain away as easily as the soap had. He wished he’d never clicked on the little green phone at all.

**

Will had gotten home a little later than Mike had expected, but not by much. On a typical day, they’d arrive back at the apartment between seven and nine. Will had assured Mike that he’d be home no later than five thirty (five thirty seven wasn’t _that much_ later than the promised time) and when he walked in the door, Mike had to hold himself back from greeting his Master at the door like an overly excited dog. Instead, Mike made himself wait patiently at the kitchen island while Will shrugged off his jacket and set down his briefcase. He had a package under one arm and handed it to Mike. 

‘For you.’

‘Sir?’

‘It’s Will,’ the other man said with a resigned smile. ‘I ordered this last week. I guess it’s been waiting at the front desk for a few days but they finally caught me on my way up here when I got back so…’ Will had shrugged. ‘This is for you.’

Mike held the parcel and looked at Will, not sure what to do. The young programmer waved a hand to encourage him to open it. Mike did, hesitantly, and revealed a soft, leather bound book and a handsome set of pens. Mike looked at the items, then at Will, confused. 

‘It’s a journal,’ Will explained. ‘You know, to write in.’

Mike didn’t understand. He turned the book over in his hands and looked down at it, embarrassed to be put on the spot. This was too fine an item for simple note taking. Will must have sensed his unease because the programmer settled himself in on a stool next to Mike and to pick at his cuticles and elaborate. 

‘You can write whatever you want in here. Your thoughts, feelings, stories, poetry, whatever comes to mind. It’s yours, you can do whatever you want with it.’

Mike looked at the book, thanked his Master dutifully, and tucked it away into his hidden sanctuary. Will had said that Mike could write his thoughts in this. What was the point? 8908 didn’t have anything valuable or interesting to say. Still, the gesture seemed sincere and Mike doubted his Master had wanted to use the journal as a tool to spy on the Domestic. If that had been the agenda, there were certainly easier ways to accomplish that goal. 

Now, hours later, Mike lounged on the couch watching Will work while he browsed the internet for ways to dice an onion without a knife. There were some suggestions, a lot of them revolving around teeth, and that was of very little use at all. If Mike couldn’t even handle the smell of a raw onion without choking back tears, how was he supposed to have one in his mouth? Was he supposed to gnaw at the thing like a rat until he had enough of its disgusting meat to make a rue with? Forget how disgusted Will would be to be presented with food that Mike had cut with _his teeth_ ; that wasn’t even imaginable. 

On the plus side, the rabbit hole Mike had found himself falling down did expose him to a whole new website. It seemed to be an endless resource of videos where people did a variety of things (dancing, building things, and even makeup tutorials) but what Mike focused on was videos of people cooking. Some were more helpful than others and he watched them with interest, wondering if he’d ever be able to create anything like the final products he saw on his screen. He thought about the vegetables he’d mangled and clicked away from the videos to look at Will. 

Mike watched the programmer chew at his nails, heard him cuss quietly and saw him stick one bleeding finger into his mouth to suck at it. Mike observed quietly while Will tapped his foot and kept trying to type with one hand despite the injury to the other. Will had been hunched over his keyboard for most of the time he’d been home, not even stopping to eat or drink and while it didn’t hurt his feelings to be ignored (who was he to demand attention be taken away from his Master’s work and directed towards him?), Mike felt his impatience growing with every hour that ticked away. 

He’d been excited (apprehensive) for Will to suggest dinner. He imagined how pleased Will would be when Mike presented him with a home cooked meal (unsightly as it may be) and how he’d look at his Domestic with affection. Mike imagined how he would shrug and say it was nothing while he internally rejoiced at the praise. How would he get the attention he wanted if Will never left the computer? Should he just _ask_ for it? Could he do that, could he really be that ostentatious? He almost laughed at the thought of a Domestic feeling so entitled to attention that they would demand it be given to them. Mike swallowed the sound and watched Will curse again and nurse his injured hand. Mike couldn’t demand he be given attention, but he could offer some to Will as a way to help the other man cope with the stresses he felt, could offer distraction from them. Mike stretched and finally pushed the laptop aside. 

“Come here,” he said, forcing himself to be brave despite his own anxieties.

“What?” Will asked, glancing over at him. 

“Come here, take a break. You’ve been at it for hours,” he pointed out, motioning to the sofa in what he hoped was a compelling enough argument to draw the younger man away from his work. 

To his surprise, Will only lingered a moment at his computer before he stood and moved towards the couch to sit. Mike couldn’t believe that had worked, that an order from his mouth had been obeyed, especially by a Master. 8908 had never been under consideration as a Trainer; he was too unstable and unreliable to have young Domestics under his care. Who knew what he might tell them, what poisons he might feed them or in what way he might twist their young, impressionable minds. 8908’s trainers hadn’t been anything like him. They were cheerful and enthusiastic, not sullen and ill tempered as he’d been after the debacle with Mother that had ended with his return to the facility. None of them whispered words of dissent into his ear when they touched him, only clear instructions and suggestions for how to cope with the position he had found himself in. 8908 had never expected any direction he gave to be followed so easily and he squirmed in delight when Will not only did as he was asked, but did so with relatively little resistance to it.

The cushions dipped under the programmer’s slight weight and Will rolled his shoulders, causing them to crack. Hesitantly, Mike reached out to touch him, to help ease the discomfort his Master felt (and fulfill his own desire for contact with the other man). 

Will twitched at the touch but didn’t pull away. After a moment, Mike pressed the heel of his palm into a tight, deeply formed knot between the programmer’s shoulders and spread his fingers wide. He pressed into the knotted muscle, pushed Will forward until his head was bowed, and began to rub. Will’s feathery hair swayed with each circle Mike made, his hazel eyes started to drift closed as he relaxed to the touch. 

Mike didn’t know what made him actually do it; reach out and touch the other man. He’d been apprehensive to even ask Will to sit with him, physically _touching_ should have been unthinkable, shouldn’t it? He could certainly come up with any number of excuses to justify himself if he’d taken a moment to question his own sudden, brazen behavior. Will was stressed, wound tight as a spring and could use the service of a massage. Mike was still worked up after his afternoon of snooping through Will’s search history and felt less likely to be rejected. Will had obviously been thinking about Mike’s offer and must have some interest in it since he hadn’t rejected it outright. Yeah, those were all totally viable excuses for the uninvited touch. 

Even if they were lies. 

Mike was perfectly aware that wasn’t what compelled him to suddenly touch his Master. 

Mike felt vulnerable. He felt raw, like every wound he’d ever had was ripped open and born anew after his conversation with the SEU. After childhood, 8908 had never really felt the desire to be comforted by another person. People couldn’t be trusted. All they did was take and take, use and abuse, and toss aside whatever couldn’t be exploited anymore. They were cruel and selfish and never spared a thought for anyone other than themselves, especially Domestics. 

But…

Will hadn’t asked for much. He needed some help keeping organized and occasionally asked Mike to keep him company. It was the least that had ever been asked of 8908 and frankly, he was starting to get spoiled by it. Mike had started sleeping heavier after weeks of not being woken at all hours of the night for experiments or service. He’d stopped freezing up every time he heard footsteps and sometimes he was even able to tune out small sounds entirely. If something fell in another room or Will cussed in frustration, Mike didn’t flinch in fear of underserved punishment. Will had tended his wounds before and now he felt like a soothing balm, a salve on the burns that was Mike’s psyche. 

So how could he ask for this, the attention and contact he wanted? How was he supposed to ask for comfort and reassurance? Will had encouraged him to say his thoughts out loud, would he understand this? Probably not. Will had told the SEU, Scott, that 8908 had been giving him trouble during their adjustment period. Maybe Mike needed to spend more time trying to be useful. He didn’t want to be a burden to the only person who’d ever treated him with kindness. He didn’t want to be sent away or traded for a more well matched product. 

Mike kept rubbing gently against the slowly relaxing muscles and leaned away while Will leaned forward and relaxed into the motion. Maybe he could get what he wanted while fulfilling his true purpose. After all, those videos hadn’t been something that had been a common search in Will’s computer history until after Mike had brought it up. Mike blushed, embarrassed and grateful that Will wasn’t facing him at that moment. He may have snooped a while longer than he should have before settling in to cook. If he was being honest, he shouldn’t have snooped at all. It was a punishable offense but that revealed content in the history tab was intriguing. Up until last week, most of the sexual content had been pretty standard, almost vanilla stuff, but even those videos that didn’t heavily feature slap and tickle still had some element of dominance and submission. 

Mike leaned against the cushions and considered the videos, the commanding tones and clear confidence of the people featured in them. He could mimic that. He could push aside the weak, needy feeling and take on a more confident role. Mike let his hand drop away, watched Will turn, and took a breath to steel his nerves. He pointed at his lap, expression as smooth and indifferent as he could make it. 

“Come here.”

The reaction was immediate. Will’s sleepy, calm expression changed, his eyes dilated, and his cheeks burned. 

“Are, are you serious?” the other man asked, voice unsteady. 

Mike pointed at his lap again, refusing to waver. 

“I… I haven’t really thought about um… you know,” Will said as he turned his eyes towards the ground. 

Mike frowned. He didn’t understand the point in Will lying. There wasn’t anything to be gained by it, not when it was Mike was offering, trying to give him something he obviously wanted. Well, not _obviously_. Will, for how talkative he was, never really _said_ much of anything, at least nothing personal. Mike only knew as much as he did about the other man from sharing a space, observing behaviors, making inferences, and his invasion of his Master’s privacy. 

How hard should he push? Will may have been in a more dominant position socially, but in temperament, Mike suspected he was more submissive. Will only carried conversations because at first, 8908 wouldn’t talk. He planned their meals around what Mike could eat, not around his own preferences for overly sweet or spicy things. Even the decor of the apartment was strangely impersonal and mostly unused. It was like Will had hired someone to decorate for him and told the decorator to do whatever they thought was best with his home regardless of his own preferences. There were some personal items; the books, the photos in their frames, those were the objects with wear and tear, but they were sparse. The books with the worn spines were the ones Mike kept in his closet and read the most. Could he learn something from them, something about Will?

“Yes you have. You never stop thinking,” Mike said gently, trying to be firm and authoritative. He didn’t want to chase Will away instead of coax him out. “Your mind’s always moving, the cogs are always tuning. You think about and overthink everything.”

_You over think what **tie** to wear. Hell, you switched the one you’re wearing now three times this morning and that was just what I saw. How many times did you change it in your room before coming to the kitchen?_

Mike shifted, reclined further into the cushions to present an image of ease. If he was right, all Will needed was a gentle nudge.

“So you must have thought about _that_ by now. So come here.”

Mike suspected that Will was accommodating, nervous, and naturally inclined to follow directions. It was why he did so well in an office environment with supervisors and project heads all breathing down his neck and barking orders at him. Will had trouble being commanding, demanding, and he didn’t do well with an authoritarian role. When Mike looked to his Master for direction or orders, the programmer didn’t know how to offer any. Even when Will _did_ ask for something, it was always apologetic or with a ‘please’ at the end. When he was giving though, when he was tending to Mike’s wrists, when he rented movies that made him squirm because he thought Mike might want to watch them, and when he presented Mike with the gift of the journal, that’s when he flourished. Those were the times when he seemed the most self assured and at ease. Having Mike under contract with him had put Will in an unnatural position, a role he didn’t fit, and he was struggling to wear it like a badly tailored suit. He’d probably have done well as a Domestic honestly (if it didn’t destroy him first). 

At least, Mike hoped that was the case because if not he was about to over step ( _again_ ) and embarrass himself ( _ **again**_ ). 

Because Mike, though not born to wear that suit of sovereignty, born to do nothing but serve, _could pretend_. He could make it seem as natural as breathing if he wanted. Mike pointed at his lap again, face stern, and Will did as he was told. 

The solid weight of Will’s small, compact body was a welcome one. After his meeting with the SEU, Mike had felt adrift, a vessel lost at sea. He was too emotional, tossed from one extreme to another in alternating states of almost catatonic shock and bubbling anger. Will was like an anchor, something Mike could attach himself to to ride out the storm. Mike reached out, towards Will’s unnaturally straight back (the first good posture Mike had ever seen the other man display) and rested his hand there. Will tensed and Mike sighed. 

“Is this okay? Am I too heavy?” Will asked as his leg started doing the nervous, jostling thing it did from time to time. 

“That’s perfect,” Mike assured as he ran a hand up Will’s spine to touch his hair. 

Mike stroked through it, rewarding Will. Mike let his fingers massage Will’s scalp until the programmer’s head lulled forward despite his back still being stiff and straight as a board. Mike allowed himself a moment of enjoyment as he watched Will relax a fraction at a time. When he saw Will’s shoulders slump a bit, Mike reached forward and wrapped his free hand around his Master’s chest. He could feel the rise and fall of the other man’s breath, the thumping of his heart. It was the beating of a dozen butterfly wings desperately trying to free themselves from a glass jar but with no sense as to where escape could be found. 

“What did you decide? What do you need?” Mike asked, already secure in himself that he knew the answer.

The only real question in his mind was how Will would respond. Would he be honest or would he find too much (unnecessary) shame in speaking the truth?

“ I… I don’t… I don’t know.”

Mike kept stroking through Will’s hair, kept massaging his scalp until that lulling head rolled so far forward Will’s chin was almost touching Mike’s other hand. Okay. If Mike pushed too hard, all those fluttering butterflies would beat themselves to death against their glass cage. If he didn’t push at all, they’d never be guided towards freedom. Mike slowly stopped carding his fingers through Will’s hair. He tightened his hold just enough to know that he had a firm grip.

“Tell me what you need,” he said again. 

_Tell me how to pull the lid from the jar._

He kept his voice low and as even as possible while he used the pressure in the man’s hair to keep his head still and directed in the way Mike wanted it. He waited patiently, there was no rush. He’d never ask Will to go further than was comfortable or make him explore places he wasn’t ready to venture. After a moment, Mike smiled, pleased to hear Will speak. 

“I want you to be in control.”

Well, it wasn’t _exactly_ how Mike wanted it phrased. _Want_ was different than _need_ , but it was close. Maybe Will didn’t understand the importance of semantics and language in this situation. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, releasing his firm hold to return to petting, rewarding Will for trying. 

“Yeah.”

“You might think you’re sure now, but things change,” Mike said. “Do you know what a safeword is?” he asked, trying to impress upon Will the actual importance, the weight of what his words would hold. 

“N- not really.”

Mike took a breath to calm himself down as he felt his dick twitch, uninvited but excited by Will’s sheltered innocence. God, how long had it been since 8908 had been with someone who didn’t have the upper hand? He’d never had to do this, guide someone before, but he knew the rules well enough to manage. 

Mike relaxed into Will, felt his own unease and frantic thoughts melt away. His Master needed him to do this, needed Mike to lead him through this process. The tall man relaxed as he slipped into the role he’d been assigned. This at least was a way to distract himself from the relentless thoughts and painful, off kilter feelings left in the SEU’s wake. He could give himself over to this and forget the fate that awaited him when his two years were up. He could hold Will, teach him, and pretend this could last.

“It’s something you say if you ever change your mind or want me to stop,” he explained gently, suddenly feeling more like he wanted to protect Will than seek comfort from him. 

Will laughed, that airy, breathy sound that meant he was uncomfortable. The programmer pressed into the hand Mike had on his chest and the Domestic wanted to curl around him, mold his entire body to Will’s. He wanted to feel Will’s skin, wanted to run his nails over it. 

“‘No’ or ‘stop’ don’t count?” Will asked, still chuckling nervously. 

“No.”

_It’s not as… uncomplicated as that._

“Oh,” Will said, tensing up again. “Okay…”

_Don’t do that, don’t freak out. It’s okay, I’ll take care of you. I know how to make this okay, to let you explore any of those hidden parts you’re so ashamed of. The rules are to keep us both safe and protected, they aren’t here to scare you._

Mike shifted, trying to decide the best way to phrase this. How could he explain that sometimes people wanted to play with pain or power imbalances in a safe way? How was he supposed to explain this to someone as soft spoken and sheltered as Will in a way that made sense? Mike wanted to do this right. Will was nervous enough as it was and if Mike wasn’t careful, he’d botch the whole thing and drive his Master away. 

“Once we start a scene,” Mike said, “it might be part of the game to say ‘no’ or ‘stop’. The safeword is the only thing that counts, and it’s vitally important you understand that,” he explained, still stroking Will’s hair, hoping it would help relax him. 

_It might be part of the game to struggle, to pretend to not want some of the things you do. But I have to know if it’s **play** or if it’s **real**. I have to know what parts are fantasy and what aren't. There have to be rules and you have to understand them._

“That’s what you say if you’re serious. As soon as you say it, the scene is over and I’ll do whatever I can do to take care of you. You’re in complete control, okay?”

“I guess…”

“Safeword is ‘red’, understand?”

Mike slowed his touches so there wasn’t anything to distract his Master from what he was saying. Will had to understand that Mike would never _actually_ hurt him or demand anything he didn’t think Will wanted and could handle. Will was one of the only Masters 8908 had ever had that he didn’t feel some level of animosity for. Mike wanted to please, to serve, (to fulfill his own selfish desires) and nothing more. Any pain or discomfort Will might experience had to be under Will’s control, not his. On his lap, Will squirmed and Mike had to still his hands so he didn’t pull the younger man back and grind against him. He couldn’t help his excitement, his body’s responses to being this close to Will, but Mike had a lifetime of practice controlling his actions (a lifetime of punishments for failing to do so). 

He breathed slowly out through his nose and closed his eyes as Will asked, so innocently, “Is that what your safeword was? Before?”

Well, it _should have been_ but 8908 had been quick to learn that outside of the training he’d received at the facility, anything _he_ said hardly mattered at all. Of course, _8908_ still had to obey the rules of the game even if the other players didn’t. Mike shifted, suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin. He spat out the words before he even realized he’d done it. 

“There was no safeword.”

_None that worked._

“Oh um…Are you okay?” Will asked, voice small. 

Mike froze. He hadn’t meant to say that, hadn’t meant to upset the other man. He quickly nodded but realizing that Will couldn’t see him, spoke. 

“I’m fine. This isn’t about me. This is about you. Are you ready?” he asked, trying to redirect Will’s attention back to more pleasant, more exciting things. 

“Yeah,” Will whispered. 

“What’s your safeword?”

“Red.”

“Good boy.”

Mike shifted, moved himself so he wasn’t leaning back so far into the cushions. He sat up straighter, tried to shake off the uncomfortable feeling that had settled over him after Will’s (relatively) harmless question. He ignored the feeling, the memories, and leaned into the now. Mike raised his hand from Will’s chest to rest on the younger man’s throat and almost hummed in pleasure when the programmer leaned into it instead of away. Mike squeezed softly, experimentally. He was eager for the distraction, eager to distract Will too. Mike was uncomfortable with the unwanted memories, but he was horrified to imagine Will wondering what things 8908 might have gone through.

Mike didn’t have much information to work with, but his assumption that night in Will’s room, that the shy, self conscious man wouldn’t respond to degradation as dirty talk (at least not the way Mike wanted him to) had served him well before. Still, most people seemed to enjoy some variation of it. Mike leaned forward and squeezed a little harder in an effort to draw Will’s attention away from 8908’s past. 

“Do you like that?” he asked, watching for a reaction, any useful information. “Like a little choking, a little breath control, Baby?”

He shifted again, pressed himself against Will, almost grinding up into him with his already half hard cock. Perhaps it was a little too forward but with one foot already in the water, Mike may as well take the leap. Will didn’t seem upset by either Mike’s words or by the man pressing up against him. Will made a pretty little sound and whispered a question of his own. 

“Do… do _you_ like it?”

Mike hesitated a moment. Why was Will asking that? That wasn’t how this usually went, how 8908’s past experiences had gone. 8908’s enjoyment was never a determining factor in his experiences with clients. Yeah, he could get hard, could orgasm, and not all of his partners had been cruel or ungiving. 8908 wasn’t subjected to ‘all work and no play’, but the play had always had purpose and it wasn’t about 8908. 

Mike lowered his hand from Will’s hair to spread across his back, between the petite man’s shoulders, and started rubbing. Will was too much of a people pleaser, he’d never relax and accept this if Mike couldn’t divert his attention to something else. The tall man gave the stubbled throat in his hand another squeeze and started rocking his hips. Will groaned quietly in response to Mike’s efforts and started to slacken his posture. 

“Do you like that? Tell me,” Mike said again, more demanding this time, ready to push harder if he needed to.

“Y- yeah.”

It was soft, Mike almost didn’t hear it. He shuddered, a wave of arousal making his rhythm falter a little as he moved against Will. 

“Such a good boy,” he praised, recalling how well Will had responded to that before. Since he was a people pleaser, this was the best way Mike could think of to reward him. “You have to tell me what you like and what you don’t,” he growled, leaning forward to speak directly into Will’s ear as the petite man made a choked sound. “So, tell me. Do you like the idea that I could hurt you?”

_How rough do you want this to be? What do you fantasize about?_

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Mike said, praising Will again for his honesty. “Does it scare you?” he asked as he moved his hand from Will’s back to his hip. 

“No,” Will said, still soft, like it was painful to say anything at all. 

“Good,” Mike crooned, pleased that he was able to get even the smallest, one word answers to his questions. “I don’t want you to be scared,” _not ever_. “This should never be about fear. I want you to trust me.”

_I know your friend must have told you about my black marks by now. Don’t worry, I’m not going to lash out at you. I’m not going to panic, or rage, or fight. You don’t have to be scared. You’re safe._

Will pulled away a little, just enough to put distance between himself and the hand on his throat. Mike stayed still, afraid he’d said or done the wrong thing. He waited, perfectly still until Will leaned forward again and settled back into Mike’s waiting hand. 

“Okay,” Will said, accepting Mike’s words and the other man felt himself start breathing again.

The coder felt a little less like he was about to spring away at any moment now but it wasn’t enough. Mike didn’t want Will to comply for compliance’s sake, he wanted Will to _actually_ relax. He moved the hand on Will’s hip to start pulling at his shirt, trying to free it so Mike could get a better angle at Will’s back, his skin.

“I um…” Will started, voice a little high. “I thought this didn’t have to lead to sex?”

Mike kept tugging at the shirt. 

“It doesn’t. Not unless you want it to.”

The thought had crossed Mike’s mind (more than once), but that wasn’t his ultimate goal right now. The goal was for Will to trust him enough to _want_ to be physically close. Sex was meaningless. Trust and… intimacy… that was-

-Not something 8908 could have. 

But he could provide it for Will. He could provide a safe environment for Will to explore himself and be accepted in. Mike could provide Will with all the hopeless, one sided affection that had been building in him, and he’d never have to have the emotional burden of returning it. That didn’t mean this would be entirely one sided though. Mike wanted to be nearer to his Master, it’s why he’d initiated this in this first place. Mike knew he couldn’t have Will, not the way he wanted, and he accepted that. A man stranded in a desert doesn’t turn down a glass of water just because it’s not an endless decanter, he drinks what he can get. He’d never be able to gorge himself and drink his fill, but it didn’t mean Mike had to die of thirst.

“Hold on,” Mike said as he finally pulled the shirt free from where Will had tucked it. 

The skin was smooth and warm. Will was so small, every touch of Mike’s hands moved him, made him press into Mike’s hand on his throat. Mike barely heard it, but he felt vibrations from the sound Will made reverberate against his palm. Was it a positive sound? It seemed to be; Will was starting to relax again, fold forward onto himself as Mike worked. Was he relaxed enough to answer questions with more than one word? Mike should try, ask a question to test the water and establish trust. 

“Tell me what you’re scared of.”

Will moved, adjusted his weight and brushed against Mike’s aching erection. Mike ground his teeth together and shut his eyes. 

“Um sharks I guess?”

_No, don’t do that. You were doing so well._

Mike gave another squeeze, punishment for the tongue in cheek answer he had been given, and was rewarded by Will making a little sound in return. 

“No,” he said firmly, making himself clear. “Tell me what _really_ scares you,” he urged. 

He kept the pressure of his hand steady, never altering it. He waited for Will to speak, made large, lazy circles over the exposed skin. When he let his nails run over it, goosebumps rose. Will still didn’t say anything, but he leaned into the touch, making Mike swell with pride. He waited, gave Will a fair amount of time for the other man to answer before he squeezed again to remind the coder he’d been asked a question. Will’s head rolled, his pretty, mole spotted throat bobbed as he swallowed. 

“I’m afraid of public places.”

Mike relaxed his hold on Will so the smaller man could speak more clearly, so Mike could hear him better. He let his nails trace over Will’s spin, his ribs, and back up again. Mike shimmied his hand beneath the other man’s collar to loosen it, so he’d have an easier time moving his hand from Will’s back to his hair. He leaned forward but stopped himself before he pressed his lips against the back of Will’s neck, hovering instead an inch or so away. Will’s voice was a little lower, less shaky now when he started talking again. 

“Groups of people freak me out.”

Mike curled his fingers under the collar of Will’s mauve shirt to card through his silky hair and nodded. He himself understood the feeling, even if he didn’t understand why Will would feel that way. 

“You work in an office building,” Mike pointed out quietly. “You took me to the library and to the pier and out to eat. How afraid of groups of people can you be?”

He hadn’t asked because he didn’t believe Will. 8908 was afraid of people too but was forced to interact with them out of obligation. Will was free. What compelled him to do _anything_ he didn’t want to do? What compelled anyone? There were Domestics to handle any unwanted tasks for them, why would a Master or any free person ever do anything they didn’t want to do? In front of him, Will laughed again. He tried to turn but Mike tightened his hold in Will’s hair to hold him still and reminded the man he’d been asked a question. Mike held him still, directed Will’s face forward. He had no desire to be looked at right now. He couldn’t guarantee what his expression might look like and this wasn’t the time to not be in complete control. Will stilled his movements obediently. 

“I have to be a functioning member of society. I could code remotely, from home. I could order everything I need online and hole up here and never leave but that’s not healthy is it? My mom tells me all the time how unhealthy that is…” 

It made sense, Mike supposed. To seclude was something of a self indulgent act. The most self indulgent thing Mike had seen Will do was drink to excess and it was a fairly minor vice compared to the others Mike had seen people have. At least Will didn’t hurt anyone (other than himself) with it. If his mother, someone who was important to him, was the one to point it out and scold him for his seclusion, Will’s desire to please her would probably outweigh his fear of crowds. 

Will paused a moment before clearing his throat again. 

“And I took you to the library because I promised I would. I took you to the pier because… Anyway, It doesn’t mean I didn’t need something to take the edge off before we got there.”

Mike understood that too, even though the only times 8908 had been talked to about his health had been in a purely physical capacity. Weight, blood sugar, muscle mass, organ function, that sort of thing. 8908 would take his supplements, his medications when they were needed, and participate in the prescribed exercises. Other than the mood stabilizers that he was given on occasion, there was no mental health treatment. It just wasn’t a priority for Domestic care. There were no kindly doctors in pea coats who sat 8908 down on a chaise lounge and asked him how he was ‘feeling’. It didn’t matter, not in the grand scheme of things. 

8908 took mood stabilizers he was prescribed so he’d be more manageable. The occasional light, heavy, floating feeling that accompanied a particularly high dose, like the one he’d been given the day he returned from the hospital that had almost given Mike a laughing fit at how soft the couch was, could be pleasant. He could see how Will might grow dependent on it for relief to his emotional discomfort, especially if he had unlimited access to medications and no other way to relieve his anxieties. Mike could help him find another way, one less reliant on misusing substances.

Mike lowered his hand from Will’s hair to return to his back. Will was still taunt, posture warped by all the knots and mounds in his muscles, so Mike concentrated on loosening them until Will was breathing slowly and making soft, unconscious sounds. 

“Why does it scare you?” Mike asked, more to himself than anyone else. 

He knew why 8908 was scared. 8908 was nothing, just property for people to use however they wanted. As soon as he left the facility, left the protection of it’s walls, anyone could do whatever they wanted with him. 8908 was scared because people were cruel and didn't care for Domestic life one way or another. Why should they? It wasn’t like there were consequences for hurting or damaging them. Not even the fines were a deterrent when the people who leased the product had mounds of cash. Police didn’t arrest you for dragging a disrespectful Domestic by the hair through the street to teach them humility and gratitude. Coroners barely batted an eye when they signed the cremation orders for a dead one who’d been killed because of lack of compliance. Will was safe, protected by laws. What did he have to be afraid of?

“Uh, just, generalized anxiety? I guess? Social anxiety? Panic disorder?” Will said with a shrug. “I can’t keep the diagnosis’ straight and they kinda change based on who I’m seeing at the time to treat them. It gets hard to keep straight after a while,” he murmured, dismissive of the diagnosis if not the question. 

Mike tucked a strand of hair behind Will’s hair, let the pad of his finger curl over the shell of Will’s ear. This must be difficult for him, to share something as personal as his medical history when Mike wasn’t even sure what his favorite color was (he suspected it was some shade of purple but had no confirmation). He breathed in, lowered his eyes, and decided to push his luck. Either those butterflies would find their freedom or Mike was about to tighten the lid of their jar, trapping them further. Mike took one more breath, breathed in the comforting scent of the man he wanted, and prayed that he wasn’t about to ruin everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter is late and even though I promised we'd get to see this scene in full, when I typed it out it was over 21 pages. I decided to cut the chapter and move the rest to the next. On the plus side that means I already have about six pages of the next chapter already typed. On the down side, Mike's chapters are getting more and more unaligned from Will's. I suppose it will all even out in the end. 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated. Be well and take care of yourselves out there.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike plays his part while struggling with difficult and mixed feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Strong sexual content. Brief mentions of abuse. Medical emergency. Power Imbalances.

“How many doctors are you seeing?” Mike asked, nervous to press but longing for more information, a deeper connection. 

“Right now? One GP and a nurse practitioner. I used to see a psychiatrist but um, when I moved I never did a follow up with his referral so…” Will mumbled with a shrug but didn’t finish his thought. 

Mike didn’t want to pry, but he didn’t want Will to stop talking; not when he was just starting to open up. Of all his Masters, none of them had offered more than a superficial glance into their lives. Mike didn’t really _know_ anyone and no one knew him. It was lonely. _He_ was lonely. He never had been before. 

“The ones you’re seeing now, do they both write you prescriptions? You always have pills on you.”

Will might think no one noticed, but Mike saw his Master fish them from his pockets, heard the bottles rattle around in the desk drawer when Will opened it to search for a pen. They were scattered everywhere around the apartment, like Easter eggs in a field. Mike found them underneath the clock radio in the kitchen, tucked away in the empty teapot on the living room bookshelf. He never touched them or moved them, but he’d check from time to time to see if they were still there. Sometimes they were, other times they were gone. 

Will didn’t answer immediately. He just sat frozen, unmoving and unresponsive. Mike stayed still, waiting to see if Will would shut this whole thing down before it even started. Mike closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of Will against him, on him. He stilled his movements and concerned himself with reading Will’s breathing, his nervously twitching muscles. Will’s heartbeat against his hand had sped up again, was getting a little erratic. That question must have been too close to home. He was going to say ‘red’ and Mike had to be ready to take care of him, soothe him, let him know he was safe, that his secrets were safe. When Will finally spoke, it wasn’t to use his safeword. 

“Yeah. Well, only when I need them.”

Mike didn’t know how to react. Will hadn’t ended the encounter, but he had ended the honesty. Mike could tell by his body language and tone of voice that the response was a half truth at best. Fine. If that was how his Master wanted to play this, Mike could oblige.

He shoved roughly against Will, pushed him forward until his hand could slip lower across the programmers back. He knew when he moved Will he put more pressure on the smaller man’s neck, so Mike caved his palm to keep from hurting any of the coder’s vital structures and started to massage the area above Will’s hips. He didn’t need to hurt Will to correct him (didn’t want to hurt him). 

“It doesn’t help? Why? What is it _really_ about groups of people you don’t like? Why do they scare you?” Mike asked a little more firmly. 

He had to move the conversation away from the pills, away from dishonesty. That question had been too sensitive of a topic to explore right now. Will might not want to talk about his use of medication, but he’d been willing to talk about his fears. At least he’d admitted to them. 

“I don’t know. They’re unpredictable,” Will mumbled softly. 

“What do you mean? What do you think they’re going to do?” Mike pressed, wanting Will to get back to the place they’d been moments ago, when he’d been honest.

“I don’t know,” the younger man said again, no more satisfying of an answer than it had been the first time he’d said it. 

Mike moved his head away from Will’s ear to rest his chin between the other man’s shoulders. He breathed through his nose to smell Will’s conditioner. 

“What are you hiding from?” he asked, rewording his question. “You hide a lot. What don’t you want people to see?”

_You’re hiding from me **right now**._

“I- I don’t know.”

Mike adjusted his hold on Will’s throat, thumb on one side, index finger on the other. Those delicate butterfly wings answered his touch and Mike squeezed harder, slowed their beating. If Will was going to lie, he would be corrected. It was what they had agreed to. Mike wasn’t doing it to hurt the other man or scare him; it was just a reminder that Mike was in control and lying wouldn’t be tolerated. The entire idea here was to establish trust between them. How was Will supposed to trust him if Mike hurt him? 

To Mike’s pleasure and delight, Will actually moaned. 

The taller man smiled and moved his chin to rest on Will’s shoulder. 

“Tell me the truth,” he urged, squeezing tighter and he felt Will squirm in his palm. 

“A failure,” The younger man gasped breathlessly. 

There it was. That was the driving fear that made Will willing to tolerate self important men giving him orders every day. There was the driving fear that made Will bend over backward to please everyone, and bite his tongue to keep himself hidden. Will thought if people knew him, if they _saw him_ for who he was, they would see nobody at all. 

Above him, Will’s breathing had started to increase and the sounds he made weren’t those wonderful, whiny sounds of pleasure Mike so desperately wanted to hear. Those were panic noises; little whimpers and repressed sounds of perturbation that were spilling from Will despite his efforts to keep them in. Saying that secret truth must have been hard for him, harder than Mike thought it would be. He had to pivot Will’s attention away from what he’d just admitted, so Mike started moving his hips again. He relaxed his hold in the smaller man’s neck and tightened his grip on Will’s hair. A little physical pain under the right circumstances could distract from mental pain, and mixed with pleasurable stimuli, could drown it all together. 

Mike tugged and released Will’s hair, massaged his scalp and rocked against his ass until Will was writhing and moaning in pleasure instead of hyperventilating from panic. The way Will moved and melted into him was the most rewarding thing Mike could have asked for. It had been a long time since anyone had let 8908 have even a modicum of control and for a second, Mike forgot what his purpose here was. 

Will was so warm, so responsive. He was yielding, soft, and made the most lovely sounds. Mike wanted to drink them in, absolutely coat himself in them like a perfume. Mike watched Will’s lips part, could almost visualise the colors of the sounds that came from behind them. Mike raised his hand to touch those lips, as if they were open just a little wider he’d actually be able to see with his eyes what his mind saw. 

“Your mouth is so pretty, I just want to touch it. Tell me if you don’t-”

Mike was so shocked when Will opened his mouth and sucked in two of his fingers that he couldn’t stop the sound he made in response. The way Will did it wasn’t shy, not a timid lick and withdrawal. Will was sucking at lapping at Mike with no hesitation, none of the shame Mike had gotten used to from him. Well, at least his efforts hadn’t been ineffective. Mike wasn’t used to this, to seeing his docile, reticent Master acting this way. It was scandalous. It was amazing. 

He had to admit, it was tempting to get lost in this, forget his goals and just enjoy having Will finally be receptive to his attention. It was hard not to when Will was whining and sucking on Mike’s fingers in a parody of what it might be like for Will to have his mouth elsewhere. Mike let his hand move, let himself push deep into Will’s mouth and just listen to the sounds Will made for a while. It was tempting to stay that way, with Will sucking on him and wriggling on his lap, but he couldn’t. He might cum if he did and that he hadn’t let his dick distract him before, he wasn’t going to let it have that much power now.

His cock was achingly hard and all Mike wanted was to replace his fingers with his mouth and eat at Will. Instead, he entwined his free hand in Will’s hair and pulled his head back to watch the other man’s face. It was flushed and raw, hazel eyes dark and heavy. With Will’s neck craned back at the less than comfortable angle, Mike was able to actually watch rather than just feel what was happening. It was an intense visual on it’s own but combined with Will raising his hands to cling onto Mike’s wrist to keep the taller man from withdrawing, it was downright ponographic. Mike had to stop himself from pulling Will back and pressing himself so hard into him he was sure it would hurt the other man. In lieu of that, he settled for grinding against his Master with a low groan. It was easier to control his arousal this way, with him setting the pace. He could ease back when he needed to and keep himself from coming undone under Will’s body if he was the one to maintain the pace of it all.

He didn’t know how long they stayed that way, moving their hips and exchanging sounds. As badly as he wanted to start pulling his and his Master’s clothes off and offer himself up, he couldn’t. That wasn’t what Will had agreed to. 

Mike forced his head to clear. It was more difficult than he’d anticipated with Will licking him, grazing his teeth across Mike’s knuckles while he practically bounced on the Domestic’s lap, and Mike felt he deserved some kind of metal for his self restraint. His briefs were uncomfortable and wet with precum. If he didn’t stop this he was going to have a bigger mess on his hands. CPMs weren’t allowed to do that, to tire themselves out by orgasming and leave their Masters unsatisfied while the Domestic recovered. Mike extracted himself from Will’s clinging hands and coaxed the man to his feet, then onto his knees beside the couch. 

He had told Will this wouldn’t lead to sex unless it was something Will wanted, and that hadn’t been what his Master had said to him. He’d said he wanted Mike to be in control. He hadn’t given consent for the Domestic to take it from an erotic control exercise to full on fucking. He certainly hadn’t given permission for Mike to cum in his pants and stain the clothes Will had bought for him. That wasn’t Mike being in control, that was giving in to physical stimulation and it was weakness.

“Unzip your pants,” he growled as he let a hand fall back to Will’s face, his hair. 

Will did as he was told, hands moving gracelessly as he worked. Mike watched him and lowered his hand back to Will’s mouth to see if he’d be invited back. He was, instantly, and he pressed into the welcoming, wet heat. He kept his eyes focused on Will’s face, too enraptured by the programmer’s expression to look away, and tried to keep his hips from rocking in time to Will’s tongue. 

“Touch yourself,” he rasped, not sure how the command would be received, but hopeful. Will had let it get this far, maybe he’d let it continue? 

Will was so sweet, so shameless when he was being told what to do. He didn’t protest, didn’t pull away or even hesitate. He didn’t look embarrassed now, he just kept watching Mike, like pleasing the freckled man was the only thing that mattered. Mike tilted his head, stroked Will’s hair and watched him. It was hard not to break eye contact and look down at what Will was doing with his hands. He allowed himself a glance or two but kept up with the eye contact, tried to show Will his concern was with the other man, not just his body, not just what Will could offer that way.

“You look good like that, Baby. Really good,” Mike praised. “Bet you’d look even better with my cock in your mouth,” he growled, hoping it would drive Will over the edge.

Will shuddered and Mike felt more than heard the vibrations of sound around his fingers. Mike slowed his hand in Will’s mouth, withdrew a little to give the other man the room he might need if he was trying to speak. The dirty talk had been forward and not everyone liked the idea of sucking cock, especially not a slave’s. What good was having a safeword if he wasn’t able to speak when he needed to? When Mike tried to ease off and give the other man the opportunity to halt things, Will made a desperate sound and sucked harder. Mike shut his eyes for a moment, swayed where he stood. Jesus, if he didn’t get a grip he was going to take this too far. When he opened his eyes, Will’s own were closed and he was still working Mike’s hand in his mouth with abandon. Mike had to regain control of this situation before it ran away from him entirely. He tightened his hold on Will’s hair, tried to reestablish his role in this. 

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” he rasped, eyes darting back to where the programmer held himself loosely in his hands, forgotten. 

Mike pulled on Will’s hair, titled his head back. Will’s eyes looked a little red and watery when he opened them, but he did what he was told. Mike kept his fingers moving slowly and his cock pulsed in time. Mike knew the inside of his slacks were wet from the way he leaked and was momentarily grateful that he’d worn black. Will stroked himself furiously and it was all Mike could do to keep his eyes on the younger man’s face. Mike relaxed his hold on Will’s hair and started stroking it, encouraging the man. 

“You’re perfect… Look so perfect like this,” he corrected quickly, praying Will hadn’t noticed his slip up. 

He was allowed to _think_ whatever he wanted, it wasn’t like Noble Synergy had developed a way to monitor his thoughts (not yet at least). He could fantasize about fighting back against a facility guard, or breaking a client’s neck and running. He was allowed to dream about having his own place, the way he’d choose to furnish it, and about having his own money. He could envision what it would be like to have a pair of arms wrapped around him not possessively, but affectionately (could visualize that it would be Will). Mike could imagine what another Domestic might say if they ever actually had an opportunity to talk together unsupervised. Would they whisper the same thoughts back to him, or was he alone even among his own kind? Mike was within his rights to think whatever he wanted as long as he kept his face trained and the thoughts unspoken.

So he did. He looked at Will, touched his hair, and allowed those thoughts to roam. Will might not punish him for his thoughts, but he would almost certainly withdraw if he knew them. They were too… real. Too much like an actual person’s and even though Mike could indulge the mental image, he could never voice it. Will didn’t need to know. No one did. Mike could keep his fantasy of love and acceptance to himself and could translate it to a more acceptable fantasy: sex. 

“Come on, cum for me. I want to watch you,” he hissed, trying to reign himself in as he encouraged Will to let go. 

It was a beautiful sight and Mike felt honored to witness it. This is the most honest Will had ever been with him. Even when they had been in bed together, Will had tried to keep quiet and composed. Now he touched himself and looked at Mike and was totally exposed. He tried to hide, to look away but Mike held him still, maintained the eye contact throughout. When Will was done, when he was shaking and fragile, Mike went back to carding through Will’s feather soft hair. He finally let his hand in Will’s mouth fall away to stroke across his cheek and jaw, comforting him through the aftershocks of his orgasm. He wanted to stay that way, touching and admiring the beauty that was his Master, but he couldn’t. If he did, he’d show too much or say something too revealing. He stepped away, let his hands fall to his sides. 

“Do you feel better?”

Will looked confused, like he didn’t understand the question. Mike tilted his head and watched, waiting for a response. Hadn’t this been effective? Did he need to do more, find another way to distract him? After a moment, Will’s hazel eyes cleared and he nodded. Mike raised his hand to touch Will’s hair again, just for a moment before he shifted his weight. 

“Good. I’m going to start the shower for you. I want you to get cleaned up and I’m going to cook you something. You’re going to eat, and then work for another hour, no more than that. Then you’re going to sleep. Understand?” Mike asked, ready to provide the aftercare Will would need.

He had to do this right. He couldn’t botch this, the most essential part of the trust building. Will had to know, had to learn that this was more than a physical release, but about caring for Will in all manners that he could. This wasn’t about using someone for sex and abandoning them after. Will blinked up at him. 

“You can cook?”

Mike almost laughed. Well, he must have done a sufficient job at distracting Will if his mind was actually on to the subject of food instead of his work. Mike started to smile but kept control of his features. No, he couldn’t cook, at least not well. 

“You do realize you have about a dozen cookbooks in your kitchen, right?”

“I um, I think I just kinda use them as decorations,” Will said, face flushing again and Mike felt his mouth try to curl into a smile at the bashful confession. 

“I figured as much. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” he offered, extending a hand to help the other man to his feet and towards the shower. 

**

Following the encounter, Mike worried that he’d been too aggressive for what the other man had needed from him. Maybe he’d been too rough, too demanding and spooked Will. Maybe his aftercare hadn’t been enough. It was hard to judge how much Will needed or how much Mike should even offer. It wasn’t like Mike had much firsthand experience with aftercare of _any_ kind. He knew it was something people needed, but had never been given any of his own. So Mike was left to guess, to stumble half blind, and just hope he hadn’t stepped on ice that was too thin. 

At first, Mike thought he _had_ mistepped and plummeted through the ice to the freezing water below. Will was a little jumpy after, more reactive to Mike’s proximity. He’d avert his eyes, press himself against the wall to get out of the way, and mumble ‘sorry’ when they passed each other in the hall or doorways. At the office, the younger man would duck his head and shift away when Mike leaned over him to pick up another stack of Will’s hastily scribbled notes. It was like Will couldn’t put enough distance between them fast enough. Mike wasn’t sure what to make of that and it made him feel… strange. Self conscious? Hurt? _Embarrassed_? Whatever the unnamable feeling was, it faded quickly enough when he saw the averted eyes and shifts away accompanied by a blush. 

In its wake, a new emotion took hold; one that was almost as uncomfortable as the first. He tried to ignore it, push it away as quickly as he pushed aside the smile that tried to grow when he thought about what that blush might mean, what it _could_ mean. It didn’t matter. Even if he could put a name to it, Mike couldn’t act on it. The last time he had, with 7227, it had only caused him, _both of them_ pain. 

So Mike ignored the feeling and concentrated on other things. For instance, he was starting to become something of an expert at making himself scarce whenever James walked through the programmers’ work space to glare over their shoulders and intimidate them into working faster. There was a perfectly good copier in a mostly empty breakroom that was _almost_ large enough to totally hide behind while he pretended to be busy with work. It wasn’t that he thought James might try something in the middle of the office in broad daylight like he’d threatened, but avoiding the possibility altogether was still preferable to the slim chance that it _might_ happen at all. 

It was a relief when Will asked if he’d like to actually leave the office for lunch. While it was easy to slip out unnoticed in a crowded room, it was more difficult to achieve when the office cleared out for the workers to take their meals. Actually leaving the building meant that Mike could eat in peace without having to watch the doors, ready to bolt if he needed to. It meant he could relax and enjoy the sun on his skin and the idle chatter of pedestrians as he walked. It meant he could enjoy the taste of the food and the way Will’s eyes watered and nose wrinkled when he got a mouthful of peppers. 

Mike took a sip of his water to clear a tickle in his throat and swallowed hard. It felt uncomfortable, like the beginnings of strep maybe. He wondered vaguely if Will had any cepacol in his pockets as the pain in his throat started to grow. 

Mike coughed to clear the discomfort and took another drink, but neither offered relief. Every inhale of breath felt like his throat was closing up, like the more effort he put into the task, the harder it got. He pawed at his throat, tried to give himself more room to breathe as he coughed, but it felt useless. Every cough hurt, his throat felt like it was spasming and fighting against his attempts, getting smaller and tighter the more he tried. His vision was fading out, his ears were ringing with the blood in his veins. It wasn’t until Will touched him on the shoulder that Mike was able to focus. 

Mike gripped the hand, weak as he felt, and squeezed. He panted, tried to breath through his nose like he’d been taught to do to calm himself down, but this wasn’t a psychological response to stress (well, maybe it was a little as the task of breathing became harder and harder to accomplish). Will was talking to him but Mike couldn’t hear the words, not clearly. Will tried to pull his hand away to fish his phone from out of one of his pockets and Mike clung on without meaning to. He tried to focus on Will, so he had something to concentrate on other than the horrible feeling of drowning on dry land, and the shorter man hesitated. Will readjusted, used his left hand to dig his phone free and dial it so Mike could keep hold of his right one, and squeezed back reassuringly. 

It helped a little, to have Will touching him. When the medics arrived, Mike didn’t have the strength to do much more than wiggle away in a vain attempt to avoid the needles they wielded. He should be used to it, to being held down, stabbed and injected, but the feeling never really got any better. At least this time it wasn’t leather straps or cold plastic that held him still. It was Will, hands firm but gentle that kept him stable when strangers inserted their needles. Will held his hand and rubbed his arm to comfort him even as it became easier and easier to breathe. The collar still felt tight and Mike pulled at it, to relieve pressure on his itchy skin. 

“Hey, you’re okay. I’m right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere, I’ve got you,” Will assured him, still stroking his arm. 

Mike tried to nod and be still. The medicine was working, he knew it was, and struggling like an infant wouldn’t help anything. Still, it was difficult not to tug at the collar, even if it didn’t help. Will watched him, let Mike hold his hand, and finally looked over at the paramedic monitoring Mike’s vitals. 

“Can you take that off him?” Will asked, motioning to the collar. “He can’t breathe.”

Mike dropped his hand away from his neck, not wanting to cause anymore of a fuss than he already had. 

“I’m sorry Sir. I’m not authorized to do that.”

“Well he’s my- I’m his…”

Mike glanced over at Will, wanted to tell him not to bother and that Will didn’t need to get worked up for him. He knew confrontation was difficult from the coder and it wouldn’t matter anyway. The only time 8908s collar had ever been removed for a medical reason had been when he was bleeding out at the bottom of the stairs with a cracked skull, and even then it was only so the paramedics could fit him with a neck brace to keep him from moving and worsening the injury. 

“He’s under contract with me. _I’m_ telling you to take it off,” Will finished, a little flustered. 

“I’m sorry Sir,” the EMT said, shifting her weight. “You’re not authorized to do that either. It might be causing some discomfort, but I assure you, your Domestic can breathe.”

Mike rolled his eyes. He knew they would say no. And yes, he could breathe. Breathe, but not speak. Because Mike wanted to speak. He wanted to tap Will’s arm, get his attention and say it was okay, it didn’t bother him that much. Mike knew he wasn’t allowed to ask for the collar to be removed. Any time he’d ever seen a Domestic ask, they had been beat down (sometimes literally). He didn’t want Will to get a lashing, even if it was a verbal one, so he wanted to talk and tell him it was okay. When he tried, nothing came out but a low rasp. 

“But he’s _mine_. I’m telling you to take the damn-”

Mike froze. _’Mine’. **’Mine’.**_

Did Mike mishear that? His vision was still a little fuzzy, a little grey, but the hearing issue had cleared up once his blood pressure went down. The ambulance was still loud though, maybe he hadn’t heard that right. It was entirely possible, wasn’t it? Mike blinked up at Will who was still arguing with the medic, face red, brow pinched. 

Will had never treated 8908 like a possession, had never acted like Mike was less than him. What did that word mean? If he said it, it had to _mean_ something, didn’t it? 8908 had been called that before, someone’s property. The phrase was condescending, degrading, designed to remind him that he wasn’t anything, not even a person. When a client said _’You belong to me, you disrespectful shit. You’re **mine,** ’_ as they shocked and fucked him, beat him and passed him around, the words held different weight than when Will said it to the medic. When Will said it, in an effort to have the correctional collar removed, not for his own pleasure but for Mike’s comfort, Mike didn’t cringe or shrink away. 

Mike looked at Will, at how frustrated he was and then back down at their hands. While the look his Master wore while speaking to the EMT was angry, the touch on Mike’s hand was light. While Mike watched, Will looked back down at him and softened his expression. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” Will said, voice less angry now that it was directed at the Domestic. “ _You’re_ gonna be okay. We’re almost there. I promise.”

Mike swallowed heavily and nodded. His throat and chest felt tight again, but he forced his hands to be still for the rest of the ride. 

At the hospital, Mike had fully expected to be separated from his Master as he had been every previous time he’d ever been hospitalized. Instead, Will followed, accepted all the forms and filled them out while doctors spoke to him. None of the staff spoke to Mike. He didn’t mind; he hadn’t expected anything different. It was better in some ways. Usually when he was hospitalized, 8908 didn’t have the faintest idea what was happening or why. He was usually strapped to the bed so he wouldn’t try to run or so heavily dosed with tranquilizers he didn’t even have an option to. With Will in the room, it didn’t happen. Mike wondered why. Did they trust that Will had enough control over his Domestic so they didn’t need to tie him down, or did they not want people, _outsiders_ , to know that’s what they did? Will worked for the company but not directly with the products. He’d never seen the facilities outside of the showrooms. Maybe they didn’t trust Will to not make a scene if he saw what happened to hospitalized Domestics. Mike almost laughed at the thought. How stupid to think people would care, as if they didn’t already know. It had to be because the staff trusted Will to keep him under control. 

Mike was used to being injected, poked, prodded, dosed, and tested without a single person explaining any of it. Staff came in, did their jobs, no muss, no fuss, and then left. With Will around, they had to speak, had to answer all his questions and explain why they were doing the things they were doing. It was the most information 8908 had ever gotten about his medical history, even if the information wasn’t being given directly to him. 

The allergen test wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever endured, not by half, but Mike still didn’t like it when he had to strip and lay flat. It made him nervous, made his skin crawl and he felt like he might break into a cold sweat or jitters. Will stood next to him, hand on his shoulder, and murmured comforting words. 

“They’re almost done. I’ll get you home soon.”

_Home._

_**‘Mine’.**_

Mike lay on his side while he waited for the swelling in his back to die down. He chewed the ice Will gave him and looked out the window, watching the cars below. He watched Will too, seated in a chair near the bed, flipping through his phone answering messages. His Master hadn’t left yet. He’d stayed the whole time, through the tests, the monitoring, and the long discharge process. He hadn’t left; hadn’t gone home to wait for Mike to be delivered or even wandered off to stretch his legs. He stayed in the room with Mike, offering gentle touches across Mike’s wrist with the back of his fingers without seeming to know he was doing it. Mike didn’t move, didn’t want to alert Will to the unconscious action. If he did, Will might stop. If it was something he was doing without realizing it, he almost certainly would. Will never gave him physical attention like this. If anything, he was always sure to keep his hands to himself and at a proper distance.

Mike looked away from Will’s stroking hand. 

_’Mine.’_

**

Mike starred at the counter, at the clerk behind it and rolled the coins between his fingers. He’d washed them in the sink along with the crumpled, forgotten dollars he’d been collecting. It was amazing what people would throw away. Handfuls of change tossed out windows, pennies and nickels, useless on their own added up. He even found a few dollars outside of the apartment, blown across the parking lot and forgotten in the weeds. He almost gave them to Will, but selfishly pocketed them instead. 

Now he stood and played with the money in his pocket and tried to decide what to buy. Would the café employee even accept money from him? Or when he presented it would she know it was stolen, that he wasn’t meant to have it at all? Would she call security and have it confiscated and have 8908 detained? Mike touched the tie around his neck to reassure himself the collar was well hidden, and tugged at his sleeves to straighten his jacket, and stepped forward. 

“Morning! What can I get started for you?”

For a moment, he froze. Mike had to force his shoulders to relax, to take a more natural pose than the rigid one he’d assumed when he thought about being caught and punished. He put his hands in his pockets and looked over the menu board and pretended he belonged there. 

“Morning. Can I please have a large Americano and a bottle of Hint?”

“Do you want that Americano iced or hot?”

“Hot, please.”

“And what flavor for the water?”

Mike paused. They came in different flavors? He’d never really noticed before. He only knew the café had them at all because he’d seen people around the building drinking them. He swallowed, tried for a charming smile, and shrugged. 

“Surprise me.”

“You got it,” the clerk said as she punched something into her micro. “It’s 7.84,” she said with a smile. 

Mike thumbed the money and slowly extracted it. He’d counted it at the apartment and then again in the stairwell after he’d parted from Will who was off to have his meeting. He knew he had 8.22. He’d counted it enough times to know exactly how much he’d collected. He extracted it and held his breath. It was all he had. He handed it to the clerk. 

“Sorry about all the change,” he mumbled as she set it down to count. 

“It’s all good. I can always use change. So many people use cards, my drawer is always on the verge of being short. Okay, here you go,” she said with a smile as she handed him back thirty eight cents. “Can I have a name for this order?”

“It’s… Mike,” he said, a little startled. 

“Okay Mike, give me a few minutes and I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

“Thanks.”

Mike stepped back, his heart pounding out of his chest and pocketed what was left of his money.

Mike. She’d called him Mike. She hadn’t recognized him as a Domestic and she’d called him by his chosen name. He’d… he’d passed. She didn’t know what he was and nothing bad had happened. He’d done it. 

He pushed away a smile and waited. When she called his name again the smile slipped free and he felt his lips curl up despite his efforts to stop them. Mike collected his items and held them close as he headed to the stairs. He’d bought something _with his own money_ and the cafe employee had called him by his name _twice_. He had to take the stairs. The thought of being in the elevator where other people could see him was too intense right now. Mike didn’t know if he could control his facial expressions well enough right now to keep them blank and he didn’t want anyone to see him slip. 

He pushed the door open with his shoulder and started up. It was a long walk but he didn’t care. He had privacy, an opportunity to let himself relax. The cameras might see him but he wasn’t doing anything wrong, so it didn’t matter. It wasn’t against the law for Domestics to smile. If anything, it was encouraged when interacting with clients. 8908 used to be good at it. When he was young and on the rental circuit, it was easy. Clients showered him with gifts and champagne, expensive holidays and endless praise for his beauty. So smiling had been easy and if someone on the elevator saw it, they probably wouldn't think it strange or report it.

But as he got older, as the clients got rougher, the smiles were harder. By the time he made it to Brenner, they barely existed at all. So Mike didn’t want to share this, not even with strangers who probably wouldn’t notice anyway. This was for him and him alone; his secret moment of pride and self satisfaction. 

He walked slowly, letting himself take his time, just listening to the echo of his own footsteps as they bounced off the walls. When he heard someone speak, someone call out to him, he jerked, surprised. 

“Mike! There you are.”

He looked up, directed his gaze to a landing three stories above him. Will was leaning over the railing, looking down at him and Mike felt his smile try to spread. 

“Hey. What are you doing here?”

“Just getting some air. Hang on, I’m coming down.”

Mike sped up his pace, not caring if it looked needy or desperate. It was how he felt. 

It had been difficult to detach himself from Will’s side the night before. He didn’t want to be alone, didn’t want to be separated from his Master. 

_’He’s mine. He’s mine. He’s mine. He’s mine.’_

Mike couldn’t ask for Will to stay with him, but as it turned out, he hadn’t needed to. Will let him stay close, even set up with him on the couch to watch movies. He’d settled in with Mike on the same couch instead of the one across, almost close enough to touch, and stayed. Mike didn’t know how long Will stayed with him, but when he’d fallen asleep, his Master had still been there. When we woke, he had a blanket draped over him and Will was gone. 

Mike handed Will the coffee he’d ordered for him and watched the shorter man draw it to his lips. 

“Thanks, you’re a life saver.”

Mike made a dismissive gesture with his good shoulder (the other was stiff from his night on the couch). He hoped Will would like the coffee, coffee _Mike_ had bought with his own money. The only money he had. 

“It’s no big deal,” he said as he felt that little prickle of pride try to rise up again. He took a drink of his sparking water (oh, watermelon? Or at least something pretending to be watermelon) and looked over at Will. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

Will was a terrible liar. His eyes and nose were red, had he been crying? What the hell had that prick James said to him? Mike looked down at his drink and took another sip. 

“Well, you had a meeting with-” _that limp dick piece of shit_ “-Mr. Dante earlier and now you’re hiding in the stairwell. I expected you to already be at the desk typing away. Are you panicking again?”

“I’m fine,” Will insisted, fake, tight smile firmly in place. 

_Well that’s bullshit._

Mike wasn’t exactly an expert at empathy, but he knew anxiety when he saw it. He’d seen it enough in the faces of fellow subjects, felt it enough himself to recognize the signs. Mike leaned closer. After a second, he reached out for the other man. 

“Give me your hand.”

Mike waited, chest tight. Why had he said that? It was awfully demanding of him, and overly entitled. This wasn’t a scene, there was no reason he should feel like he could just _tell_ Will to do something and expect him to obey. This wasn’t the safety of the apartment, where no one would see and where Will could, without societal expectations to do otherwise, give in to demands from a Domestic. Mike felt his hand start to quiver the longer Will looked at it, not moving. 

After a second, Will lifted his hand and extended it slowly, palm down. Mike took him by the wrist and flipped it over to press the water bottle in his hand to Will’s exposed wrist and felt the tightness in his chest loosen. He rolled the bottle and watched the younger man to see if he would comment on the impropriety of Mike’s actions. 

“What… are you doing?”

“This used to help me when I was upset,” Mike explained slowly as he moved the bottle over his Master’s skin. Will didn’t pull away and he felt a little emboldened. Maybe it was alright that he was overstepping as long as it was in an attempt to help, to offer service. “To have something cold on a pulse point. Here,” he said as he pulled the water bottle away. “Turn your head.”

He reached up and wrapped his hand around the back of Will’s neck, around the base of his skull to tangle in his soft hair. He raised the bottle and pressed it against Will’s throat, where his carotid artery was drumming away. Mike held the bottle still, watched the water collect on Will’s throat, and run down his neck to the collar of his shirt. He shifted his eyes to Will’s face, saw the color of his skin fade to it’s more natural state, and felt the shorter man start to relax. Will leaned into the touch and for second, Mike had the urge to pull him close and press his nose against the other man’s hair. He wanted to bury his face in the soft curtain of locks and inhale, breathe him in and drag his tongue over the condensation that was collecting on Will’s throat to lap at it. 

The image was a powerful one and Mike had to give his head a shake to clear it. He licked his lips instead; it was a poor substitute. Will might be okay with Mike being demanding to an extent, but he most certainly wouldn’t appreciate the things that Mike wanted to do, not here, not in that moment. Mike had had Masters that were excited by exhibitionistic behavior, that got off on the thrill. He couldn’t imagine that Will was one. Besides, there was a camera in the corner, watching everything they did. Mike looked at it briefly, then back to Will. 

_’He’s mine.’_

Mike still didn’t know what that meant or why Will had said it. Was it possessive? Protective? Did Will even know he’d said it at all? He wanted to ask. He didn’t want to know. 

Mike pulled the water bottle away, suddenly feeling like he needed to take a drink from it to wet his overly dry mouth. 

“Better?” he asked to break the silence that hung between them after they’d parted. 

Will cleared his throat and looked away. 

“I’m great, thanks. How’d you know how to do that?”

“Personal experience. Drink your coffee before it gets cold,” he added to draw attention away from _why_ he knew cold and ice would slow a racing pulse. 

Will did, almost immediately, and Mike watched. Had he done it right? He hadn’t drunk coffee in ages, but he’d watched Will make his coffee every morning, so maybe he’d gotten the mix of cream and sugar balanced correctly? Every other time he’d gotten Will coffee, he’d just grabbed a handful of creamer and sugar packets and let his Master decide for himself how much he wanted. This time Mike had felt, he didn’t know, like because it was _his_ money, because it was something _he’d_ bought, that he should complete the whole process on his own. He watched Will from the corner of his eye, searched for a reaction, and saw the other man smile. 

“Thanks. I appreciate this, by the way,” Will said as he took another long drink from the foam cup in his hands. 

Mike looked up and then away. Will liked it. He liked the gift. Mike thumbed the change in his pocket and flushed.

“Hey um, we should get back soon but when we’re done for the day is there anything you wanted to do?” Will said, interrupting his thoughts. 

“What do you mean?” Mike asked, alarmed as the irrational thought crossed his mind that Will had somehow known, could somehow sense that Mike had been thinking about things other than his duties. 

“You know, is there anything you want to do after work?” the programmer asked, eyes trained on the Domestic, searching. 

“I’d like to get my transcriptions done and help you in any other way you might need,” he said quickly, trying to get his mind back on track and away from useless things like personal desires. 

“No, I meant, is there something you want to do after work? Not just things you feel like you have to do, things you _want_ to do.”

Mike hesitated. 

There was a time he would have thought it was a trick, a question designed to uncover any wavering loyalty or need for reconditioning. 8908 had seen it before. He’d seen Domestics presented with a test and not knowing what it was, fail. He never did though. He knew better than to do something as stupid as indicate one way or another if there was something he wanted or if his mind had wandered away from acceptable thoughts. 

But that wasn’t Will. Will wasn’t… he wouldn’t try to trick him like that. 

“I want to go to the grocery store,” Mike admitted quietly. 

Will looked at him and blinked. 

“What? Really? Is there something you need?”

Mike turned away, suddenly very self conscious. There wasn’t… it wasn’t like he needed something. It was more just curiosity rather than _need_. He’d seen enough videos on the computer by now to know that there were tools out there that he didn’t have access too or that were better suited for things he wanted to try. He just wanted to walk around the store, look at the products and get ideas for things he’d never make. It was stupid, it was wasteful of the little free time Will had, and he’d been selfish to ask. He lowered his head, let his hair fall over his face so Will wouldn’t be able to see his embarrassed expression. 

“No, I don’t need anything. I just wanted to look around,” he explained. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Will said as he shifted and looked away. “We can check out the store, you don't have to apologize, I was just surprised. Of course I’ll take you. If you see something you want, just tell me. I’ll get it for you.”

Mike nodded. He felt stupid and useless and… and angry. It was an anger he’d never felt before, born from something more than frustration and fear. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the willingness the other man had shown for his request. Mike hated that he even had to ask. He hated that he couldn’t get things for himself, that he was dependent on the kindness Will had shown him to do even the simplest things. It was humiliating. It was dehumanizing. Mike wasn’t a child that needed tending to and provided for.

He was far worse. He was a Domestic. He didn’t even have a real name or a social security number. For all intents and purposes, he barely existed at all. There was nothing he could do on his own and the only reason he had anything at all was because Will had given it to him. 

He slid his hand across the change in his pocket. People threw it away. They tossed it into wishing wells, out their car windows, or dropped it accidentally without bothering to bend and pick it back up. They had no idea how valuable it was or how long Mike had collected it before he could buy anything at all. If Mike was real, if he was a _person_ , he wouldn’t have to search for scraps that people threw away. He could get a job, a _real_ one. If he did he could earn his own money, he could buy things for himself and he wouldn’t have to ask Will to take him places. Mike could get his own car or pay his own bus fare to get where he wanted to go. He wouldn’t have to _ask_ , he could use the money however he wanted. 

Will touched his arm, squeezed it, and Mike looked over. 

“Come on. Let’s get going.”

Mike looked at him and Will was looking back. He was watching Mike and cradling the styrofoam cup against his chest while he shifted from foot to foot. 

Eight dollars and twenty-two cents, the most money he’d ever collected on his own, reduced to just thirty eight cents. Mike knew he’d do it again in a heartbeat; build up his little collection and hand it over willingly on a gift for Will. When his contract was up, when Will inevitably gave him back, returned him to the facility... he’d wouldn’t be able to keep any of the pennies he collected anyway. He might as well use them on things Will liked, a small ‘thank you’ of sorts. He didn’t have much of anything else to offer. 

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter feels a little disjointed to me, but I've tried to edit it five times and can't seem to pull it all together coherently. I'm probably going to take a break from this series next week to work on a weird little AU that's been floating around my head and see if that can't clear the cobwebs. Hopefully by the time I come back to this, the next chapter will be more cohesive and written better. As always, comments and kudos are appreciated. Be well and take care of yourselves 💜


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will makes Mike an offer. Mike is moved to action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Strong, explicate sexual content. Past abuse.

Mike was practically vibrating with excitement, or as close to vibrating as he ever got. It was more of a slight, unnoticeable bounce in his step. Just a tiny spring in the heels but nothing more, nothing inappropriate or too revealing that would show an outsider even a hint as to how he felt. It had been years, _years_ since he’d been allowed anywhere like this. The last time had to have been when he was twenty or so, and still in good standing with the company. Back then there was no collar, hardly any restrictions on what kind of clients he worked with. It seemed like a lifetime ago and Mike felt his jaw clench as he struggled to force the repressed memory from the murky depths of his mind to the surface. He didn’t remember what city he was in or what he’d been called at the time, just that the client had been a pretty brunette with blue winged eyeliner and a stash of sticky, fragrant bud. 

The client had been sweet, kind of bubbly, and spoke with a thick southern drawl. What was her name? Mariah? Aviah? Something with an ‘ah’ at the end. She had broad, swimmer’s shoulders and legs so long she was almost taller than him, even without the heels. He loved to bury himself between those legs and let her squeeze the life out of him while he worked. 

She’d liked to play video games, and they had a competition with each other, where one would go down on the other while they played. The idea was to see who could beat the other’s high score while the one giving oral tried their best to distract the player. She always won, but 8908 suspected it had less to do with his sexual skills and more to do with the fact that he had barely held a controller for more than fifteen minutes prior to that engagement. 

8908 spent a weekend with her; it had been fun. The last time Mike had been to a store, she (Delilah? Petulah?) had been too high to drive and 8908 didn’t want her to dress anyway, she looked amazing naked. She’d asked him to go to the corner store for the most fattening, salty snacks he could find so they could gorge themselves silly on his last night with her. 

This wasn’t a corner store with all the merchandise packed into six small aisles. This was… huge. It was disorienting and Mike didn’t even know where to start. He couldn’t justify walking every aisle on sheer curiosity alone; that was too selfish. When he tried to take a moment to read all the signs, to just find the aisle he actually wanted to look at, it was almost sensory overload. 

There was too much to look at and everything caught his attention. People were everywhere; some bumped into him and he swayed where he stood, unsteady on his own feet. He blinked and craned his neck to see. He had to hurry so he didn’t keep Will out for ages after an already long day at the office, but he needed his vision to clear first. Mike felt a horrible mixture of anxiety and excitement curling and writhing in his belly, so powerful that he almost felt nauseous. Will nudged Mike’s ribs with his elbow gently. 

‘Don’t worry, take your time. Throw whatever you want in the cart.’

Mike told himself that he wasn’t going to do that, that he was only here to get a quick look around, just to get ideas but… Will didn’t have a garlic press. He really should have one, shouldn’t he? He only had _one_ slotted spoon and not a single immersion blender. Mike didn’t feel comfortable asking for _all_ of these things, but he could probably ask for one set of stirring spoons that weren’t rubber. 

He was embarrassed to say that it wasn’t the only thing he regulated himself to asking for. The garden department was too tempting to resist and he wandered into it before he even realized what he’d done. For as long as it had been since he’d wandered around a store, it was even longer since he’d done any gardening. The last time had to have been with Mother. Mother always had a garden, always made strawberry rhubarb pies from what Mi- _Caleb_ harvested. He used to like to eat them with milk and ice cream while they sat in her sunroom and knit him caps that never fit quite right. 

Every year, the mint she grew for her tea inevitably overtook the garden. It would choke out all the other herbs if it wasn’t pruned, so he would spend hours at a time over the summer pulling up all the excessive growth by the roots. He missed the smell, missed the taste even. He’d never cared for mint tea as a kid, but missed it desperately once it was gone. 

Will let him pick whatever he wanted and for once in his life, Mike didn’t feel like the gifts were some kind of quid pro quo. 

Mike set himself up with his laptop to look at recipes, just to get some ideas. Well, the laptop wasn’t _his_ (he wasn’t allowed to _own_ anything), but Will never asked for it, and he didn’t even seem to care if Mike used it whenever he wanted. He even let Mike take it to his room at night, into his little closet and into complete, unsupervised privacy, so it _felt like_ his. 

Mike clicked on an article, journal Will had bought for him in hand, as he read the author’s anecdotal story about how she grew up in this or that region and the recipe was always a favorite among friends. He didn’t know why people bothered to leave such long notes when the whole reason people clicked on the article was for a recipe, not the author’s life story. Mike let his eyes glaze over the words while he scribbled away in the journal, content that his notes were only for himself and that no one else would see them. He ran his thumb over the leather, dragged his pen across the margin to doodle while he read. Mike wasn’t an artist; the best he could do was little squiggles or basic shapes, but it was… freeing. No one was going to take the notebook away, spend hours trying to analyze if the press of the pen was too hard, if it revealed some hidden, repressed hostility that needed corrected. Mike pressed as hard or as lightly as he pleased with the pens, in the little leather journal that was meant only for him. He let his squiggles have jagged, sharp edges, and colored in the shapes he made with black ink without worry. 

Once the author was done with their rambling and finally got to the recipe, Mike brightened. Basil mint pesto was simple enough. It only had a handful of ingredients and he had most of them already, though maybe he _should_ have grabbed that garlic press. Still, the recipe was fairly easy, how badly could he fuck it up? Maybe he could make his own dipping oil over the winter, with the dried leaves of his plants when he brought them in during the cold season. Shit, maybe Will wouldn’t mind getting him a sunlamp so he could grow things in his room.

Mike rolled onto his side to look at Will, to ask him if he even liked italian, but Will was leaning back, eyes closed and hands laced behind his head like he was lost in thought. His shoulders slumped and the chair creaked as it bent under his weight, letting him recline and tilt his face to the ceiling. He’d been drinking for a few hours now and Mike didn’t really blame him. If _he’d_ had a meeting with James fucking Dante first thing in the morning, and if he liked to drink, Mike would probably indulge too. 

Will looked like he was thinking about something and Mike didn’t want to interrupt him with stupid questions, so he waited. Will’s expression was almost always tense, brows drawn together and lips pursed. It used to make Mike nervous. Usually when people looked like that, they lashed out. Mike had found himself on the wrong end of misplaced anger more than once and was always ready to protect his head for a slap or punch. When angry or frustrated, most people he’d worked for went for the easiest, most available target to take their frustrations out on and 8908 had the misfortune of being such a target fairly frequently. When he’d first arrived, every twitch of Will’s lip, every flare of his nostrils, and every curse under his breath made the Domestic tense up. Mike waited for something to happen, but it never did. The most Will would do was drink, throw a pill or two into his mouth, or slam his hands down on the keyboard in frustration, destroying his own work. 

Mike lay on his side and waited for whatever ugly thought Will was having to pass, but it didn’t. His expression stayed the same, but his fingers started tapping against his skull and his foot had begun rustling against the leg of his desk. Mike shifted his gaze down, to watch Will’s leg bounce. Maybe it would settle on its own. 

Or maybe Will needed him and just wouldn’t say. 

The couch dipped under his weight as Mike rolled to sit. He set the soft leather journal next to the laptop and stood, padded over to where Will was sitting with his eyes closed, and looked down. From his place behind the chair, Mike had a better view of the other man. He had a crease between his tight knit brows and his lips were moving though no sound came out. What imaginary crime had Will committed this time that he was still apologizing for? What intrusive thought was he allowing to live rent free in his head now? What was it that was bothering him so much that he hadn’t even noticed Mike approach? 

Mike looked at the younger man, watched his throat move as he swallowed and spoke under his breath. The movement made the little freckles on his neck bob with it and Mike let his eyes follow them. He watched, silent, for longer than was acceptable and when Will opened his eyes, he was so startled to see Mike standing over him that he nearly topped his chair. Automatically and without thought, Mike caught the headrest and pushed forward so the legs landed firmly against the carpet before the chair could flip and dump Will unceremoniously onto Mike’s feet. 

“You okay?” he asked as Will blinked up at him, hazel eyes wide. 

“I- I’m fine,” the smaller man stuttered, not at all convincingly. 

“You don’t look fine,” Mike pointed out, not unkindly. 

Will smiled at him, expression tense. Mike didn’t care for that look. It was a defense mechanism, the same as Mike’s tranquil one. It was the brother to the one 8908 used when he was trying to make himself seem equable under stress. Will’s smile was a learned response too, one he used when he needed to seem amenable for others. Mike never needed to be agreeable; he just needed to be obedient. 

“Oh, I’m okay. I was just thinking.”

“What were you thinking about? You look really far away,” Mike said softly. 

He didn’t mean it in a bad way; Will always seemed a little detached. There wasn’t anything really wrong with that in theory and 8908 wasn’t in a position to judge. He’d never formed any personal bonds or cared to share his thoughts with anyone. To be honest, he’d never really cared what anyone else was thinking beyond whether or not they were thinking about hurting _him_. Not until Will.

“Nothing serious,” Will said and Mike felt a little pang of hurt. 

He wasn’t asking to be polite, he really wanted to know. Will, for as much as he tried to get Mike to open up, to act like a human being, was withholding. Mike reached out and lay a hand against the younger man’s throat lightly, and started counting. Over a hundred beats per minute. If anything, the alcohol should have slowed Will’s heart rate, especially if he was being honest. Mike sighed and ran his thumb over the programmer’s stubble. 

“You’re lying. Your pulse is elevated,” Mike pointed out matter of factly, hoping that the pain of being lied to didn’t show in his tone. 

“Well, your hand’s on my neck,” Will laughed. “You startled me.”

Mike wasn’t sure what to do. Should he let it slide, just accept that there were some things that he wasn’t privy to and push away those hurt feelings? What right did he have to them anyway? It wasn’t like they had an actual relationship. He settled on squeezing lightly, just to see how Will would respond to it. Would he pull away? Or would he accept it like he had earlier, on the couch? Will went limp beneath the touch and his eyes fluttered. 

“You caught me. I _was_ thinking about something.”

Mike felt his lips twitch in pleasure as he ran a thumb from Will’s neck to his jaw. Will shivered at the touch and his pulse lept against Mike’s palm. 

“Still thinking about how your meeting went?” he asked, visions of James berating and humiliating the shorter man dancing through his mind.

“A little,” Will admitted breathily. 

Mike clenched his jaw, angry. James was such a prick. He always had to make himself feel big by making other people feel small. Will was a perfect target; always so ready to submit and tuck his tail at any sign of conflict. Mike could picture it perfectly, how the meeting must have gone. He could hear James’ condescending tone and Will’s apologetic one. Will probably bent his head and uttered useless excuses while James beat him down with subtle but well aimed insults. James had always had a talent for cruelty and while Mike knew he couldn’t _physically_ hurt Will the way he had 8908, James had probably honed the skill another way. 

Mike leaned forward and scooped up a piece of ice from Will’s empty mug. This had worked on the stairwell, what harm could there be in trying now? The ice was cool and slick, but as Mike raised it, the smell of liquor followed. He didn’t think about it further than wanting to clean the cube, and popped it into his mouth to suck. Thank god it was diluted, because the taste of scotch had lost any appeal it might have once had in the years Mike had spent in sobriety.

He let the cube fall from his mouth and back into his hand as he took Will by the wrist and deftly flipped it. Better to ask for forgiveness than ask permission he thought as he pressed the ice cube to Will’s wrist, just below the joint. Will didn’t pull away, didn’t even react other than to keep his eyes trained on Mike’s hand as he worked. It wasn’t what Mike hoped for (he’d hoped for _something_ , even if it was just a sigh of approval), but it was better than Will recoiling from him. 

He breathed through his nose, as even as he could make his breath, and let his chin rest on Will's shoulder. 

“I wish you’d say something when you’re upset. You can tell me you know,” he said quietly, tentatively. “I’m here to help you.”

_I want you to let me. I want you to talk to me. We talk all the time but it’s never **about** anything. I thought you said you signed the contract for me because you wanted companionship._

Will twisted and Mike almost pulled away. He was glad he resisted when he realized Will was moving to look at him, not put distance between them. 

“I… I don’t want to bother you with every little feeling of discomfort I get. If I did, you’d never get a break.”

Mike heard that little, airy laugh that Will always did when he was uncomfortable and pressed his cheek against Will’s to silence it. He hated how often Will did that with him. What was it about Mike that caused that nervous reaction? He wanted to think it didn’t have anything to do with him at all, that it was just part of Will’s nature, but he never heard that laugh when the programmer was on the phone after work hours. Not the calls he took from coworkers, but the ones that would trickle in from time to time when they were home in the apartment. When Will was talking to people he actually liked, when he was talking to people he was comfortable with, the only laugh Mike heard was that genuine, deep rumble or the surprised snort he always tried to cover up with a hand. The only time Mike got to hear that laugh was that night in the office. He wished he got to hear it more often. 

Mike pressed his face against Will’s, sudden stinging building in his nose. He didn’t know why he needed to be close to Will and why it hurt so badly to be rejected. Because that’s what Will was doing when he didn’t turn to Mike with his problems. When he didn’t let Mike get close and know him, it was the softest rejection there was. A slap to the face would have hurt less than the gentle withdrawal Will did every time he let out that wispy, unsure laugh. At least the stinging in his nose from a slap would fade when the hit was over. The sting he felt now tended to linger as long as his hurt feelings did. 

When Mike leaned in, Will leaned away. Mike raised his hand from Will’s wrist and dropped the ice cube back into the cup. If Will wouldn’t offer closeness, Mike would just have to initiate it himself. It was a problem with a client he’d never had before; that was unique to Will. Mike moved to loosen Will’s tie, pop the first two buttons on his shirt. The programmer went limp, his head rolled back, and he offered up his throat as Mike worked. His adam’s apple bobbled when he swallowed; as close to permission as Mike was likely to get. Mike plucked up another piece of ice from the plastic mug and ran it across Will’s exposed neck. With his free hand, Mike gripped Will’s jaw and tilted it towards the ceiling, not just so he could see what he was doing, but so he could see the other man’s face. 

The fact that Will was keeping his eyes open for this was a surprise. Will had a tendency to close his eyes, and even though he wasn’t looking at Mike, the fact that he kept them open at all was a welcome change. Mike saw them twitch, like the other man was considering looking at _him_ instead of the ceiling, but in the end, Will kept them focused up. Mike didn’t really mind. If Will had been watching, he might have seen Mike looking too closely or too long at him, at his brown and green flecked eyes that wavered from time to time, or at Will’s throat arched back at such a vulnerable angle. 

If Will had been paying attention, he might have noticed Mike letting his own dark eyes wander lower, as he ran the bit of melting ice towards the collar or Will’s undershirt and the little dip of his clavicle. Mike felt the sudden desire to lick along the trail of water the ice left in its wake, drag his tongue across the rough stubble. He was abruptly jerked from the thought when Will spoke, voice a breathy whisper near his ear. 

“Thanks.”

Mike was taken a little off guard, but didn’t flinch. He kept running the ice over Will’s pulse point, kept watching the veins pump away just beneath the skin. 

“For what?” he finally asked, curious. 

“For noticing,” Will said, sounding less nervous if still apologetic. 

Mike hesitated. It was hard not to notice when the only person he spent his days with was upset. Was it uncommon? Was it so unusual to notice a change in behavior or demeanor in someone you were in close proximity to? He wasn’t sure. He never really noticed when other Domestics changed; he never spent enough time around them to ever learn their personalities. But he’d been with Will almost two months, longer than he’d ever been around others like him. He’d been around clients longer, Brenner certainly. But Brenner had never tried to hide who he was, _what_ he was. 8908 couldn’t help but notice the signs of a mood shift in the older man. It wasn’t like he was subtle with them.

“You’re welcome.” 

“Can I ask you something?” Will questioned, still not looking at him. 

“Of course,” Mike replied, eager to be spoken to, to have the conversation continue. “I’m at your complete disposal.”

That clearly wasn’t the right thing to say. Will twitched, tensed up, and pulled away a little. 

“Um, it’s nothing. Never mind.”

Mike swallowed, upset with himself. He bumped his cheek against Will’s in apology. He tried to change course, redirect Will back to a place he was more comfortable being. 

“Trust, remember?” he asked, hoping beyond hope that the younger man would respond. 

Will nodded, but didn’t speak. Mike dropped the melting ice back into the mug and rested his hand against the back of Will’s head. He pressed firmly, tried to draw Will’s attention away from the ceiling, but the younger man seemed intent on avoidance because he just focused instead on his computer. Mike thought about tightening his hold in Will’s soft brown hair, but reconsidered. While it had worked before, letting Will speak when he was ready seemed the better course right now. After an agonizing few moments, the programmer shifted where he sat and cleared his throat. 

“I… Am I doing alright? As um… someone you work for? Are you happy here?”

It was Mike’s turn to look straight ahead and plant his eyes on the computer screen full of meaningless gibberish. What kind of a question was that? What did it even mean? Mike didn’t know how to answer. If by ‘happy’, Will meant was Mike comfortable, the answer was yes. He wasn’t in pain or fear at any given time, he didn’t really lack for anything. There were no exhausting demands made of him and he had opportunities to learn new things that interested him, at his own pace and leisure. He could rest whenever he wanted, curl up in his closet or on the couch, and he wasn’t poked or prodded relentlessly. Was that what it meant to be ‘happy’? Was there anything within reason that he wanted that he didn’t have? 

“I’m fine. You’re… You’re doing fine.”

“Is there anything I can do? I noticed you don’t like to ask for things at the store. You don’t even use the white board much so um… is there something else I can do? I could set you up with an Amazon account and a secured credit card so you could get the things you need without having to ask, if that would make you more comfortable. Would you like that?”

Beneath his touch, Will twisted a little, finally trying to look at him and Mike felt very suddenly like he didn’t want to be seen. He had no idea what his face might look like at that moment; he was too shocked by the question. A credit card? An _account_ of some kind? That was against the law. Mike wasn’t… _no Domestic_ was allowed to have ownership of anything or any kind of monetary accounts. What Will was offering was _too much_ , too generous, and it wasn’t allowed. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he said, trying his best to speak around the lump in his throat that had formed from _just how badly_ he wanted to say _’yes’_ to that question. He almost jerked away when Will pressed his cheek to Mike’s, mimicking what the taller man had done to him. 

“You didn’t answer the question,” Will chided. “Trust, remember?”

Mike was well aware that he hadn’t answered the question; he’d avoided it deliberately. Obviously he wanted that; the freedom money offered, the doors it opened.

And Will would just… give that to him? Without asking for something in return?

That was so unbelievable that if Mike hadn’t been under Will’s employee for as long as he had, he would have thought it was a trap or a cruel trick. Mike felt something coil in his stomach so tight he thought he might vomit. That tight coil spread higher, until his chest hurt so much he could barely breathe. He wanted that, _badly_ , but it wasn’t the only thing he wanted. 

The want, the desire had gotten it’s claws in him and his body responded, unbidden.

“You’re… You’re….” 

_Too much. Not enough._

Mike almost choked when Will brushed the back of his hand across Mike’s cheek. 

“Are you feeling okay? Do you have a fever?”

Mike shifted, turned to look at the programmer and his tongue felt heavy. Will’s expression was soft, concerned. He was worried about 8908, about _Mike_. It was such a foreign feeling, usually reserved for doctors as they examined him. Though truth be told, the concern was less for _him_ so much as it was for whether or not the potential profit he’d bring in would justify the cost of treatment. 

“Shit, you are sick, aren’t you?” Hang on, I’ll get the Tylenol and-”

Will tried to stand but Mike gripped his collar fiercely and pressed down against Will’s narrow shoulders to keep him in place. He hadn’t meant to, but the thought of Will leaving right now, even if it was in an attempt to alleviate some non existent ailment on Mike’s behalf, was almost physically painful. Mike squeezed his eyes shut and tried to control himself. 

The knot in his stomach tightened and his cock twitched. The _want_ he had was terrible, selfish, and unrelenting. If Mike was a free man, if he was a real person, he would have climbed onto Will’s lap and kissed him within an inch of his life, until the shy man was flushed and panting. He would have accepted the offered gift and found a way to repay it tenfold. He would have given a gift in return. He would have flirted openly, charmed the pants off the other man, literally and figuratively. He would have told James to get fucked and encouraged Will to quit that shit job and move as far away from the city that made him so anxious as he could get. He’d be confident and self assured and he’d have the guts to say whatever he wanted. He would have offered up companionship, _real_ companionship instead of the store bought kind he came pre programmed with. Instead, he couldn’t even bring himself to do anything more than whimper pathetically and press against the back of the shorter man’s chair with how badly his chest ached. 

“D…” he breathed, embarrassed but too desperate to stop himself. “Do you require my services?”

For a moment, Will went very still and Mike felt him stiffen. Mike waited, fully aware that every time he offered, he’d either been rejected or practically had to beg for it to be accepted. He really didn’t want to have to beg for this, not now. 8908 was used to lowering himself, but that didn’t make it any less humiliating. With everything Will offered, of all the things Mike wanted, this was the hardest to ask for. Yeah, his dick was hard, but it was more than that. Mike wanted _connection_. The best way he knew how to get it was through bodies touching, fucking. Physical proximity would lead to emotional connection eventually, wouldn’t it? If given enough time? Mike waited, totally prepared to be sent away, and then Will spoke. 

“Yeah.”

Mike was so relieved to hear that one word that he may have reacted too erratically. He yanked back on the headrest of the chair, pulled the chair and Will back quickly, creating distance between the seated man and the desk, and stepped in front of him. Will’s hands were white knuckled as he gripped his chair, his eyes wide and focused. Mike wanted to say something gentle, something sweet and appreciative, anything to express the level of affection he felt, but his mouth may as well have been sewn shut. That wasn’t what Will asked him to do. He had a job to do, and he was _good_ at it. 

He ignored his shaky hands, the thrum of blood in his ears, and made quick work of the buttons on Will’s shirt. He wanted to peel it off of the other man, but Will’s hands were clenched tightly around the armrests of his seat and it didn’t look like he was going to move on his own. Mike looked down at him, waiting, and when Will only looked back, Mike tugged on the fabric. 

“Raise your hands.”

Will blinked and did what he was asked. Mike slid the cotton shirt away from the shorter man’s shoulders, felt his fingers brush against Will’s skin while he worked. Mike loved Will’s skin; it was so smooth and gooseflesh rose wherever he was touched. Mike went to Will’s belt, to unbuckle it and pull it free and set it aside. When he looked back down, Will was giving him that tense, unsure smile that was his default ‘I am very uncomfortable!’ face. Mike paused, suddenly unsure of himself and his behavior. 

“Are you alright?” he asked. 

“Yep. I’m good.”

That wasn’t very convincing. One of Will’s legs had started to bounce. Mike rested his palm against it and felt it go still under his hand. 

“Are you scared?”

“No, I’m great.”

_Liar._

Mike squeezed his hand on Will’s thigh, a gentle reminder that honesty was something they had agreed on. Mike wasn’t sure, but Will’s responsiveness mixed with his nerves, and his hesitation regarding letting Mike fulfill his purpose made the taller man think that Will didn’t have the most experience in this arena. Maybe he’d been misused or mistreated. Mike knew what that was like.

“You don’t have to be scared,” he said. “I’m going to take really good care of you. Now take your shirt off.”

Will didn’t move at first, didn’t do more than lower his eyes and look forward blankly, like he hadn’t heard the command. Mike raised his hands to cup Will’s face, his hair. Mike tightened his hold and Will let a sound slip from between his lips as he looked up again. 

“I’m going to take care of you, but you have to follow the rules.”

_The rules **you** made._

“You told me that you wanted me to be in control,” Mike continued, lowering himself to whisper into Will’s ear. “I can do that,” _I can do whatever you want._ “But that means when we start a scene, you have to do what I say. If it’s ever too much,” Mike tightened his hold on Will’s hair, listened to the little inhale of breath and felt Will twitch. “If you ever need me to stop, you have to say your safeword. Understand?” 

_You have to talk to me. You have to communicate._

“Okay,” Will whispered. “I understand.”

Mike loosened his hold in Will’s hair, let it go so he could pet and stroke through it, pleased that Will was trying to talk despite his discomfort. 

“Good boy,” he praised, recalling how much Will seemed to like that. “Now take off your shirt.”

Mike let him go and took a step back so he could lean against the desk and watch. He loved watching Will, even when he was doing his day to day activities, but watching him undress was a rare treat, a thing of beauty. When Will started tugging at his pale green tie, Mike stopped him. 

“Leave it.”

The light color brought out the green flecks in Will’s eyes. Mike stepped forward and maneuvered himself between Will’s legs. He felt them twitch, like Will was considering either parting them more or closing them off entirely, but the younger man stayed still. Mike looked him over, watched the rise and fall of his chest and tried to count the little moles and freckles that blotted his skin like an inkwell had spilled and splashed against him. Mike had never gotten a really good look at the other man and he wanted to take a moment to enjoy it. He would have liked to look longer, but Will had dropped his eyes and was speaking so quietly Mike almost didn’t hear him. He had to dip his head to listen. 

“Is it okay… can I touch you?”

Mike hovered, confused for a second before he felt a shiver down his spine. 

“Yes.”

Will didn’t move, just kept looking straight ahead. 

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes,” _god yes._

Will finally raised his hands, rested them on Mike’s waist, and the taller man felt himself sway into it. It was the most extended contact Will have ever initiated and Mike savored it. When the hands moved to his belt, pulled it free, Mike pulled it away, fully intending to set it aside and keep everything organized, but held onto it so he had something to grip instead of plunging his hands into Will’s hair again. Will slipped a hand beneath Mike’s shirt, under the comfortable cotton tee beneath his work clothes, and across his stomach. Mike felt his body move, just a little, to press into the touch as his stomach clenched in delight. Will was touching him, _willingly_. His hands were soft and light, like he wasn’t sure about himself or the situation. 

Mike let his eyes close, his head roll. He let his chin touch his chest and tried to just enjoy it while Will started to undress him. He would have, but when Will started tugging on the button of his pants sloppily, Mike had a very sudden and very unwelcome memory. 

_Hands, far less gentle than Will’s, tugging at his clothes angrily. 8908 clenching his fists, setting his jaw and closing his eyes. The hands tore at him roughly and palmed his flaccid cock cruelly; less to get him aroused so much as an attempt to hurt him. The hand squeezed until 8908 was whimpering in pain before they moved to the back of his head and shoved him forward. He might have cracked his chin against the counter if he tried to grab at the hands in his hair, so 8908 planted his palms and elbows down on the counter to keep his face from striking it. The man moved behind him and 8908 let his head fall, hidden beneath his hair as the man laughed and kept pulling at his clothes._

Mike snapped his eyes open and when he looked down, he’d grabbed Will by the wrists. Will looked up at him but didn’t struggle. Mike could feel his breath hitching, his pulse elevating in something other than desire. 

“Let me have them,” he croaked roughly. 

“What?”

“Your hands.”

Will didn’t argue, didn’t tell him to mind his place and do as he was told. He offered his wrists up to Mike and didn’t struggle as Mike wrapped the belt he still held around Will’s thin wrists over and over. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Will, it was just… He wanted to be in control, just for a while. He wanted to be able to dictate what did and did not happen to his body while he struggled to push the memory aside. Will let him, totally pliant and relaxed as Mike worked on a binding that was more an illusion of safety than anything. When he was satisfied, he looked at the seated man. 

“Is that comfortable?” he asked, wanting to make sure he hadn’t hurt the programmer in an attempt to chase away his own sudden feelings of fear. 

“Yeah,” Will said, eyes moving from the belt to Mike without testing the binding. 

“Good,” Mike replied, glad that he hadn’t let his fear run away with him and cloud his judgment for how tight the binding would be.

He didn’t want it to hurt Will, he just couldn’t stand the idea of hands roaming over him freely right now. What if it triggered another long repressed memory? What if he froze up again? He wouldn’t be able to perform, to function properly if he got lost in bad memories. He needed a moment to collect himself and force the thoughts back down and away. 

“Stand up.”

Mike helped as best he could, knowing full well the difficulty is completing simple tasks when you’re not in possession of all of your faculties. He gripped Will beneath the elbows, helped hoist him up and turn him until it was Will’s back to the desk. Mike let his hands cup Will’s face gently, ran his knuckles across that sculpted jaw until Will turned his head and exposed his pretty, pale neck again. 

“Tell me what you need,” Mike urged, thumb just a half inch away from Will’s parted lips, remembering how Will had accepted Mike’s fingers into his mouth so willingly before. 

“Touch me. Please,” Will whispered, eyes half closed. 

Those pretty lips brushed against his palm and Mike felt the knot in his chest that had loosened a little, beat back by the unpleasant memory of his past, tighten again. 

“As you wish,” he said and bent his head to finally run his tongue along the programmer’s throat that had been taunting and tantalizing him for weeks. 

Beneath the touch, he heard Will make a strangled sound, felt the vibrations against his lips and Mike rumbled his pleasure back. Everything about Will’s body was soft, pliable and molding to Mike, but every little whimper, every moan felt like Will was fighting tooth and nail not to give them up. Mike bit at his throat, his collar, his shoulder, and every brush of teeth got him that much closer to Will letting the sounds escape. Mike thought about plunging his tongue into Will’s mouth and dragging them out, but he didn’t. 

_CPMs don’t kiss on the mouth. Not unless the client wants them to. There’s no telling where that mouth might have been and what might disgust the client._

Mike knew that, he did. It didn’t stop the desire to kiss Will, but he settled for gripping the man tightly around the hips and drawing a sound out that way. 

_I want to hear you sing._

Mike fell to his knees and grazed his teeth over Will’s hip as he pulled the button of the other man’s slacks open. He pushed the clothes down, until the only thing between him and Will was a thin layer of cotton briefs (which, to Mike’s delight, Will had already tented). Mike pressed his face to Will, to his heat and felt the other man jerkily move into it. 

“I’m sorry,” Will whispered hoarsely and Mike glanced up. 

Will’s eyes were closed and he had his hands raised to his mouth, finger clenched as if in prayer. Mike growled, pleased that Will had spoken and unreasonably satisfied with himself for having earned the response. He bit the programmer’s creamy thigh harder than he meant to and palmed him gently through the cotton while Will hissed and moaned, jerking again into the touch. 

_I’m going to make you sing for me. I’ll show you what this mouth can do._

“Tell me what you need,” Mike pleaded. “Tell me.”

Will shook his head while Mike watched, and the tall Domestic nipped him again.

“ _Tell me_.”

Will whined, a pretty, high note. Mike wanted the whole song, so he pressed against Will’s straining cock again, but didn’t make any further motions to offer him any relief. Will would have to learn how to talk, to ask for what he needed if he wanted anything at all. Will rocked into the touch, spread his thighs wider and Mike almost gave in. He only held himself firm because Will finally started talking. 

“I… I need… I need you to… too… please,” Will whispered as his clenched hands went to cover his mouth. “Please.”

Mike looked up, watched the other man as his own dick throbbed uncomfortably. Will had his eyes closed tight, like it was physically painful to utter the words. Mike kissed the quickly bruising thigh, an apology for how rough he’d been, and pressed his palms firmly against the back of Will’s legs to lift him. 

Will was surprisingly light considering all the sugary junk he ate, or maybe Mike was just made strong from the adrenaline and desire pulsing through him. Either way, he set the younger man on the desk and knelt between his legs, one knee on either side of his head, and pushed the briefs down. Will’s cock sprang free and Mike couldn't help kissing him on his swollen and wet tip. He dragged the flat of his tongue over and over the shaft as Will rocked into nothing but air. 

He hadn’t meant to be a tease; he’d meant to get right to business, to show just how good he was at his job. But Will looked so good above him, thrusting and whimpering helpless little begs; it was distracting and Mike wanted to draw it out.

“Please, please Mike.”

Mike’s name from Will’s lips was the sweetest aria he’d ever heard. He wanted to hear it again and again. He wanted it more than he wanted to tease. Mike chuckled and agreed before opening his mouth to draw Will in. 

Will hissed and gasped, arched his back but kept his hips planted while Mike worked his way down Will’s shaft. The soft, loose foreskin rolled back under his tongue as he exposed the coder’s silky smooth head. He tongued Will’s slit, tasted his bitter pre and felt his own hips move into the air, seeking friction. 

“Can I touch you?” Will asked breathlessly. Mike squeezed his base and hummed his consent, more turned on than he knew he even could be. 

God, Will was _sweet_ , so tentative with every physical aspect of this. Mike wanted to tell him that he didn’t have to ask, that Mike was his to do with whatever he wanted, but he didn’t want to lose that part of Will, and he hadn't done himself any favors by binding the other man with the belt. Still, there was something so endearing about it, the way he asked permission and treated Mike with respect typically only afforded _actual_ people. 

“Thank you,” the younger man whispered as he brought his hands down to touch Mike’s hair, so lightly the tall man almost didn’t feel it at first. 

The second Will’s fingers intertwined in his dark locks, Mike audibly moaned and had to squeeze Will’s thigh to keep from gripping his own dick as it throbbed painfully. Will didn’t tighten his grip, didn’t thrust up into his mouth or force Mike’s head down to choke on Will’s cock. He kept his fingers moving softly through the Domestic’s hair and making those gorgeous, throaty sounds. 

Mike wanted to drown in them and he sucked harder, lapped at Will while he stroked. Even though he was trying not to move, was trying to let Mike have complete control of this, Mike felt the shorter man start to tense, just a little. He felt Will’s leg on his shoulder start to shake, not nervously this time, but like he couldn’t control it. It was like his nervous system was going haywire and Mike loved it. For a moment, Mike considered finishing him there, but changed his mind. The last time Will had gone, Mike had gotten to watch him. He wanted to again. Mike pulled away with a final lick and looked up at the man above him, desperate to meet his eyes, but Will took one look at him in his disheveled state and closed his hazel ones quickly. 

“Look at me,” Mike said, not wanting to miss this. 

Will opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling for a moment before he collected himself, and looked back at Mike, face and chest flushed. 

“Tell me what you need,” he said as he massaged circles into Will’s shaking legs. 

_Tell me what you want and it’s yours._

“I- I need, I need…” Will stuttered, lips shaky. “You to fuck me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finals are kicking my ass up and down the block but I only have two left. I should have plenty of time to write over winter break but I'm not sure what my spring semester is going to be like as I'm going to be taking a class with my weakest subject and to make it worse, it's a condensed eight week course instead of sixteen. Help me. 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated. Be well, stay safe, and take care of yourselves.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and that it helps bring some clarity to the world building and Mike's mental state. I'm trying to update both near one another, but I can't make any promises to exactly when updates will come. Kudos and comments are always appreciated. Be well and take care of yourselves.


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